Mike Wall

*

SYNAGOGUE OF SATAN

and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads, and having heads, and with them they hurt, and his wings was as the sound of chariots, and the seven heads were seven mountains, on which the woman sitteth, and the ten horns which thou sawest upon the beast, these shall hate the woman, and shall make her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh, and burn her with fire, and the king of the earth, who had committed fornication and lived deliciously with her, shall bewail her, and lament for her when he shall see the smoke of her burning, and his eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns, and he had a name written that no man knew but he himself, and he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood, and a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea, and the third part of the sea became blood and hail, and fire mingled with blood, and the king was cast out of the sea, and he ate things sacrificed to idols, and the flesh of captains, and the flesh of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, and of them that sit on them, and he gnawed his tongue for pain, and his torment was as the torment of a scorpion

*

CLOUDS OBSCURE THE SYMMETRIC GRIDS

and how nice it is to leave swiftly
but how amazing it must feel
to be attached to be sick
to know someone is waiting
in the dark behind the fence
and how in confinement we forget faces
we want to know the answer to one question
we ask eternally
we point at one another
out of confusion and dominance
it doesn’t matter that our lives are over
everyone wants you to eat
this pizza bagel
to get out of bed
please remember my face
on christmas
and to please tell me I no longer
look like a monster

*

SON OF KARNOV

there is nothing inherited
we are the unnamed spawn
aboriginal edifice
this narcosis
murmurs in the divinity
we are omitted ineffectual
regimen of jumbled meditation
through sick soaked poison
Salt foundations of subdivision
cover my face with ichor
anchor of sun
sliced flesh thrown down the mountain
a sea of hands
resounding trampling vehement
I wash my responsibilities in mud
lay inside stone
confine the fire
without pictures of
those before me

*

DEAR SHELLY

I am a sunken Viking ship
jostling blood devotion
the end horde
we backpack
our guess sand falling
live through intermission
regular rooms empty
the last act unlit
pulling the dirt over ourselves
bomb shelter days
we were pandemic
in different airplanes
as hemispheres cloaked
from one another
your unique dial tone
your inactive voicemail
the out of service train line
I planted the terrarium
with your forgotten letters
nothing blooming
there is no ocean maker
there are no coordinates

*

Advertisements
%d bloggers like this: