arcane matter out of place

The steel city is a bar-graph
with flame overlay, belching cloudswarms
of migrants, unworking

ants dispersed by ghostly fist
of raw, material forces...

In our daybook, write,
“a day most fateful....”
Mark this humdrum observance:

Hand-to-mouth will overwhelm us
in transience
multiplicity
and vanishing vampires.

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Lyrics:
I believe in Echo,
but what does she see in me
and all the crazy bigots in my head
throwing Christian babies into the sea?

I spy, with my cloudy eye,
a man afraid to touch the flame inside
and pull back a leprous hand
commandeered and directed by an alien plan.

Oh, I believe in Echo,
but does she believe in me
and all the foundering fuckers in my mind
playing doctor with the whore inside.

She pulls a late shift on the dreamline, frying
                        canola for canola's sake, taking orders
                                   from the starving saints in the pleasure-
             cloister of her sear-wizened head.  Her onion
skin crackling, pungent yet pleasant, when fried
in the oil of her sweat, staining erotic aprons...
Brow furrowed, in a trance brought on
 by years of labor, she conjures forgetting,
  beautiful in her ranginess, unaware
   of the spell she has cast on me - longing
     for the hours of her knife, contemplating
    the craft of sacrifice.

Let us swim underwater, letting water
           be the medium through which we divine
                     the swimmid kiss of our breath-held skins,
                       aqueous and ultra-sensate.

Let the skein of water, swelling, enreeling,
      lure each into the other's dream,
            from whence we fish emerge to devour
           one the other

  on some fernid, Devonian beach.

Hieronymus Bosch had overslept.
   Proud as a goat on a badminton court,
                        scratching and stretching,
straining for equanimity
                        between sleep and waking delight,
he knew he was late for his appointment
                        but did not care.
Finding his tin can with string - a gift
                        from da Vinci - he spoke:
"Baltraffio, I'm on my way; I'm coming with!"
     (His dog quizzically sniffed at the other
can on the floor.)  He kicked over
 a candlestick in his first stumble
     from bed, stepped outside,
nude as a witch, and mounted
     the pope's dead elephant, Hanno

        the all-knowing and diligent,

          and rode off into the flaming house.