"Failure, the artiste manque or the mediocre politician--they experience the real death." Sigmund Freud

The REM mirror's
bent tubes synthesized
in snake pegs
of archipelagic
ice hieroglyphs;

(hear the eglantine washerwomen
call breakfast with gold spoons)

the hierophant C-flat
spilt in a tide pod
rainbow suit worn
in a night Mass’ oval paucity.

A date unrealized
and of silt gravity,
split on all sides
by holofoil wings
of indigo aeons,

(hear the eglantine washerwomen
call breakfast with gold spoons)

where a shadow caches
spectral amber
and unseal frog eyes
hanging as cragged
dropsy jewels
in memoriam,
insect moot eyes

spilling a fog mass, lit
in small wings

burning sigils flown
in SILK embossed flags
by codex seraphics
aflame in cellular
transmogrification,

peeling a yellow horizon

of flypaper

with

domino flanked spiders,

dialing up light in the
glass toothed eyes
of the loved dead

torn cellophane angels
unfurling false teeth,
the shattering

Chinese christabel
urn

hexes, the table
having a rorschach
spill, weeping figures
traced through in baby
blue on pinched borders,

on the melodic scuttle of uranium
arachnids,

the smear of

beatified lipstick,

marigold

(here the washerwomen
stitch a message home
in the flags of plexiglass
rising from the tinfoil
king's severed wing);

humming the coral
ministries of death's
lexical glossalia.