Monday, July 18, 2016

ashgabat 9, 10

"If you asked me what it would be like to walk on the surface of Xena, I would ask you to image [sic] walking on a frozen lake in the dark of the new moon. That was Xena. My tiny, frozen, nearly invisibly lovely planet." --Brown, op cit

Intaglio on a cube of frigid phosphorus
exactly as the hoar grimoaries stipulate,
little enough the flacks of frass manipulate
fallout in this Camelot on the Bosphorus
sunlight on the rufous pigments proves corrosive

voodoo bundle walking through dry gulch
autumn on a world devoid of mulch
but still has bugs. My rage, a thing explosive
but short-lived, is a measure of my ego
forlorn lost cry of the circling antelucan grego.

"Hope is an embrace of the unknown."

Jestocost, Hadarac Deseret, stigma decent.
Recycled marmots, hydrofluoric acid
marooned where the apocalypse seems placid
of buried city layers, this most recent
crowds still with dreams & crowns the capybara bungle

Cooling, from hexagonal to cubic,
greetings, whether effigy or pubic
the latticework unwinds, encroaches jungle
maladies, till even those most fortunate
find dying ways & hazard melodies importunate

Pleasure in Ruins.



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