Beauty is not an image of things
as they purely assume: it is tormented,
the glass that devastates the widow's arms
In a hideous fire, drawn to void reunions,
the mirrored sliver that is flung at an angle
wrong towards earth, scavenging
the thick unwanted growth
of false staccatos and rotten symmetry
in strict cannibalism:

the real made more than real,
perception's edge,
A vision of all these ruined things arising
In an onslaught of peace
That uproots temples old as wires
Torn from a heart.

It is the mind's tornado:
Do not wait in the basement for calm to come.
Unskin from your heart fear's parasite that craves itself
Surviving, a cold unthinking
Nerve stripped bare in a palm.
It is not this–
this violence, this flowing germ:
It stems from this, its radiant spike unravels
The cool collections of furious night.

Beauty is the boy who will see death
Torn with life:
His last hologram blown, bent
To the shivering deep, resurrecting
like a gathering god
an unfilled sentence,
A refusal of the rule. He stands in the threshhold
of the fallen world
Swollen in death, like a drink poured in a glass
then frozen, a pure urge emerging
from the wreck of death–

This is the word that starts the world,
When the gone has cracked
And scratched its names into the soil–
The terrible oblivion of a scarred title,
A nude expectant hand
That traces the chasm of ruins
It took for the new world...