The Flaming Tree

Its monstrous to be alive

Loose and lurid  
apparatus

subfulgently mapped 
on finger spells of death

fuck the real
rustle and steal.

Muggy mordent air, 
beware

the flaming tree
atrociously free —

My hopeless ego 
obliviated 

hopped up, propped up 
on contracture of rapture.

Unheeds the rife
with misdirection, 

marvels at the insurrections !
Not empty of anything.

Reruns 
refuse to shed, 

carries the weight
feeds the dead

overrides 
what coincides,

its monstrous 
to be alive !

My haunting 
discontentment

feral, tooling toiling 
resentments

languorous and fly
accosting the profane

with windmills 
of the slain -

At play beneath 
the seats

a fugitive fastened
to its ghastly conceits.

That the sun 
still makes it sing -

curses the wound,
and sustains 
the floor, thing.