Gargling on the wreckage of a glass civil lie nation
Shiny ill flections of phrenic parcels
Pastel fangs to suck out the juice, the cream to find me now it’s gone
I’ve never been real except when I want to liquify
The ground into splashed hair flecks, the hammer on my desk for the jaw
Bone I hold up to my face filled with sockets of Hate
You better nail it somewhere or stay dead in the power reserve
Because it comes up in dreams in love in supermarkets in the shame of surviving
In the surge of your acid weight brimming
Now what do you do with it after you’ve found it?
I can’t squint through the waves wrinkling across the witch’s face
In those folds of fire cracked sympathetic plates
When there’s no sympathy left in the tower
And the seven stars align in the Human hour
It’s yourself that you find if you could hold each hemisphere
And drill the spear through the diamond crusted surface
Snapping nerves like pencil tips
If only to pass through the hardest skin to feel the bit
Like the silver for blood we use for the hourglass drip
The only rules left are the ones made broken.
Click to enlarge:
Jacques Houis: The Millerton Mission 