Candy and Stellar Collapse

inside and out

I am an ever rotten and

rotting rainbow.

I enjoy eating

myself in public,

while simultaneously sucking

on the lollipop of failure

to kill myself; it is shaped like a word

and its shine is similar to that of a sad and sickening

representation.

Sometimes my ugliness

causes me to vomit all over those I supposedly

"love,"

as they drink

in my melting color through

a very long straw; as they gaze

up at me and praise me

for my distinctive and divine

ability

to grow knives out of my eyes.

It's all so nauseating

that it causes me to vomit a second time

in and endless

orgasm of refracted self-destruction.

In this way,

I have defied the inevitability of death and

will live forever

...just thought you should know.

Pink Blossoms on a Wolf's Tongue

Stills from Stellet Licht (Silent Light) by Carlos Reyagadas (2007)

born in the nucleus of

the Rabbit King

the poor in spirit brought warm winter soup

and lambs unto slaughter wore garlands around

their throats

and all the angels above sang light from

open wrists

but the baby just drooled on the ground

it just foamed from the mouth

like a rabid dog

it grew old as water's glow waned

and dug for treasures hidden inside its

terrifying

body

and rose higher and farther into the sky until

in the womb of a black star,

it died

crying and laughing

at the same time

Fruit

Reveal 

Reveil

Reveal

Reveil

Reveal

Reveil

Reveal

Vile are the hearts of all men

Everyman is an angel of the Lord

An angel of God, Most High, Glorious

upon a golden throne

in Heaven on earth;

and lawless is His army

Lawless and without body

Fire-walking to their ocean

graves

Sqealing like snails

Salt in their torn shells

Praising their pain with cinnamon

flowers that twist skyward in

fists

fits

Reviling in their soil

Calling up from their rotten deathbed

Nipping at the final color of a fallen

tangerine

Waves and waves

waves upon waves

of mercy

and of Spirit.

Rotten Soil

Gregory Crewdson, "Untitled (Ophelia)," 2001

You can't crucify a hummingbird.

No matter how hard you try.

But, if by a miracle, you succeed,

the image of it,

the sheer symmetry,

the divine sensibility of its form,

and the Truth that drips like blood from its beak

will snatch up your soul in rapture

and you will weep for the wrath of God,

the Almighty One:

Who cultivates the tusk of the Mammoth?

Who harvests the appetite of the Hawk?

Clumps of Matter, Inter Acting

a rock in the shape of a perfect sphere

turning in my stomach

defying its fate upon the lips of water

rejected by the dirt

(its mother, the whore)

receiving the fluids of plants and animals

sky and sea

the piss and tears from our little sun

the life-blood of time and space

turning in the center of me

denying its self

other people pass by

they put their hands in me

Onto the shape inside and

feel me like a bloated baby pig

prepare me for dissection

ask me questions about myself

(their hands still deciphering my sphere)

I go home and want to bathe

away

the afterbirth of normalcy

coating my neck

sitting on the top of my hand

talking to my face, saying:

"Let me enfold you--

and all of your senses

your pain is not real

I'll show you

wake up, swallow

breathe in and out

drink liquids

vomit 

touch bodies

fall

cut off your head

pretend to understand other people

while the fog of typicality

bleeds over your virgin eyes

like the sunrise dies

sleep, and

repeat this day after day

in precisely the same manner."

The life of the living dead

is interesting to the same extent

that it is interesting how static electricity

makes the hairs upon my arm

stand and then sit down again

stand and then sit down

But, me

I am a kitten

pawing at a ball of yarn

on fire

and I prefer this

Stasis

Marcel Broodthaers' La Pluie (Projet pour un texte), Belgium, 1969

On a day

once

but not today

a lizard

wrapped its arms around the earth

with

each kiss from its lips

the cement we all sleep on craked a little

bit 

more

desert roses spouted 

from the spots where

it salivated

I saw this happen and approached it 

with a bit of wetness

in my eyes

But the lizard

crawled into the sea

I could not go there

My home was far away

I had to get home

to walk on my carpet 

with shoes

to move between walls

and create

the meaning I manufacture there

in my home

washes over me

over my whole and enticing body

while I sleep

in my bed

My appendages are made 

from industrial plastics

They smell like dead 

daisies

I bleed in technological terms

that you wouldn't understand

My body has been sterilized

and its fluids replaced 

with matter raped of motion

The things I build are aesthetic wonders

I stand

facing them as they face me

I cannot go away from them

They are my shelter 

from the stench of rain

and the diseased dirt

the viciousness of flowers

These things I make are more

massive than the ground of all

being

So as you can see

it was not possible for me

to go where the lizard went

Though I saw my reflection 

in its blue tears

as it slipped

into the ocean

and though I looked up 

from the ground and saw the sky

invite me in

I am only human

Angel Pi, Lulla By

Francis Alys' Paradox of Praxis, Mexico City, 1997

little lamb

crying

crying

on the mountain

crying

atop the sacred

and filthy mound

angel of death

floating

above her cloudy crown

like a glass wing-ed fly

like a wasp on fire

incantations

incantations

to a God who is bleeding

milk

alone

the eyelids of a strong animal

a lullaby

in sleep will come