ReRites (Empty Bramble Wept Sweat)

Empty Bramble Wept Sweat God in a g-string, less than an unthinkable metaphor. One phrase uneasily watching dissonance pleasure itself. A Venus lamé baby river deep as your tongue A gesture of fragrant waves crafted from flesh. Inverse bone of a disease, cracked, rough gleaming and precise. The end of dampness, your soul drowned within the sun. A flock of signs sprouting in a hot grove of scalding blue hands. Loss -- wonderful -- sometimes, a scent intuited by caressed hair. The phantom of the sacred, a corrupt and riot-naked distrust pulse: Brine morbid coiling stars where salty flecked whales grieve wise swabbed veils. A Voice Comes To The Window It talks of a prisoner-scented tub. The grass and the sheets. The glass ghosts. None Of the developed journey's gutter, tactile chlorophyll acceptance of sky. Cleaning the valley of our house, its slanting leaves rolling to taste waves, making light play at living. Skirting The shadow of a rose truck song burying the stones that laughed. Publishing dreams of nothing, ancestral seismology reuniting clenching terrain. Stadiums of the osprey's prism: -ity and vs. sacrifices remembered as direction. A destruction, elected and sold, rife in shallows, a throat grid of full consciousness.