Overhead Cranking Tarantula of Metal & Ice by Marcos Oro

Overhead Cranking Tarantula of Metal & Ice

Overhead cranking tarantula of metal & ice rising dynamic inversion, tangible fumes,
tasteful chaos of crackling tarantula blizzard spray
factory winds push my back up against the chain link giving, losing, running up
urban moon dogs, colliding bitemarks shooting bloodspray up in mid-air on their haunches,
desiring moons,
throats scraping howls, inside four walls of curdling
blood fangs white bit lip blurred piping dark walk
invisible hot tight-rope walk over flesh-burning acid dump
sooty flotation, toothy grubber eyes loosening releases a howling purple penciled face on the gut-wrenching gut-wet alley wall,
some bricks missing, red-lit blood, dirt-thick socks, high rocks,
watching deeply, vivid skirts of
                                              shot hot smoke veiling blue-grey
                                              couched whim within the teasing voiceless 
                                              delirium of serial killer cookies
                                              the flash of a suspicious vehicle turns    No one will knock at the door for a decade,
thick velvety dripping black roses entangle in with
spreading green voiceless vines many thousands of
miles away, transmitting
on a white ocean of vast space intermission —

kaleidoscoping groggy touch burst tattoo,
syrup-wet eyes, collective psychedelic rays,
lines, diamond-point threads of stringy consciousness
touch groggily her eyes edited wide rain leaving
orderous suspended symbols of coldly seeded bleeding mistrust
in the slow lizard shadows of her vibing audience

Her long irregularly cut sleeves were irridescently flowing
as her lips touched the microphone; she raised her fingers &
pressed them together in the bright white-light air.

Gutted black caricature electrocution
self-identified sub-human bite, flesh deep unguent drawn blood
torn veins shimmering star-sliced beautiful writer poison flower
contorted ignited bursting crisis pulp interview broadcast
science fiction video-loop destruction; I am kingly on
my cracked light street. Fire and garish goring red paint
conduction architecturalizes finite space.

In the smooth rubble & pebble-mountain mounds
of the demolished projects, my fetus held fast to its
as yet ungrooved genetic dream. I did feel the dropping &
rising shifts proximities changes. I did feel that
you were watching me and every word. I did feel, that.

Sewer-clinging wolves mop up sludge; peering metallically,
astride an edict night, blood-purple blurry wolf shadows
sadly roam behind monotonous white laundry, crisis-ephemeral
hot crashing eyeball fingersplit. Glock loaded ugly flesh momentary
green ashen eyes

flash roar the killer cleanup faces upward shock
of new faces looking down —
fullness broken by detection looming softly barbed
chaotic isolated snake gashes, wall thud
cold earth golden rock sunless venomous
(((taste you song)))

alert to the solar system’s wrapping
its ice crystal fur clasp,
smashed a window and ran
in reverse rummaging through
dark shards of glass stupid dispersed

matter of abrasive mumblings, black matter
misgivings of the Laundromat anti-hero who gouged
out his own mythic eyes, the white
orange embers burn out, leave six city hours away,
stupified, dispersed, feeling stretched out over two states
winter rooftops, had time to run in the
small dark cold slanted streets, in happy blinding snow,

a thousand winters coalesced into
one space on the sunlit headless rooftops today
unpeeling universal zip codes of euphoria

idiot city garbage stolen hungry
crashing strung down loose hanging onto
the walls we pissed on, fingers scratch down
the old brick that turns to red talcum at the touch,
and stuck out tongue —

cuffed against an eerie confessional ambient track
liquid officers rose from cracks beneath the tattooed
rumbling welts of big mountain stones, brackish green
water, blue trees thought today (((to have been gone))).

Behind the splendor cluster mind-fuck twinkling of December lights
houseslookinginto gas stations wearing a mask,
matter of you, and there a parking lot of what
runs you idiotic unforgotten hungry in a smash tongue, where are (((you?)))

without eyes

Jumping over big stones. Where? With your paw-paw
fishing for a while
in the vastest space of
untormented thought & sunlight
fishing for a window with a fresh braid
from mama each morning, corporate engine
denies flashing angst.

Ever grimacing rain-soaked black cardboard
memories gore the audience with identity tusk
embedded nascent burn from earth blood-purple
heavy stone embryo that smiles and creaks
tantalizing unguent spit of a thousand-plus, heavily
garbed, intrinsically garbled autographed disowned eye-darts:
see every dark mirror bursting purple gushing unceasing,
better look out, baby.

Hiding marked thick sugary sutures in exposed retinas
of isolated dehumanized brain, vandalizing horror
fusion of arthouse ravaging clouds noiselessly all space outward
exploration of the actor’s stare

punch purple ((((window))) silent often junkie
folding painted velvet movie era massacres bleeding
holes of retina nightmares, sociopath parachuting self-demolished,
too sleepy to learn new delusions in cumulus

secret teeth punch toxic sutures time fog unhewn metal
self-demolished brainfall of leftoverwhelming sleepy-eyed
mailboxes go ahead America see a new poet
with nothing new, hurt global
nonchalantly collapsed isolated dehumanized
                                                                    brain abolished brainfall to the beginning. 

You lose unanimous peculiar violet free delusion of leftover mud obsessive unpinned
tumbling art history wheel.
Broke secret fog in HA…HA. Seeping, muck-red gut eyes scrawled violet pool patina
of antique lasagna, chasmal broadcast sub-human panicky,
a billion dark eons brain-soaked rainy,
leafy, tunneling-out breath from the dry rock dust in a desert afloat control
a thousand caricatures, and you choose to peer at my slowing velvety movie —
follow me all day long with a camera of electrified sizzling guts. Demure darkness of poet blood stolen hammer green steel
echoey alluring glass mother, in hunch punch prison the way
a billion teeth scrub my provocation of the cop galaxies, soft-crust body-jungles grabbing
radio killer relentlessly; loading decimated glass figurines tethered to a stop-motion
animation aquarium universe roaming and radio your killing eye trajectory is shit.
Anyway, I wipe my tracks, your shadowing me is present-tense.
Shapeless television elevation in HA…HA. Reportage: the house is clinging to a teaspoon.

Lips of light require absurd commentary and a howling black fire. In/out, there’s nothing

you can say or do to keep the sociopath machine steady,
to wipe out hot chaotic isolated magnetic people’s noir consciousness
of white laundry, to express a well-hidden psycho-babble teatime scrawl,
phrases of white-hot laundry glued to the face of a concrete sociopath.
Snatch prison touch shadow-fireeater postered in the rain barbed prickly

will slice fingers (((off))) without any sense of clinging horror.

Crisis-ephemeral, switched shrinks, in the documentary of The Broken
Gondolas of White Laundry, concrete threadbare darkness electrified glass-dry,

re-experience organ ecstasy on the tip of the tongue.

Went off his head,
modicum wall inside rain-soaked sociopath stepping into the sunny night
of chronological mistakes eye-stinging trembling of damaged kinds,
monotonous brain leaves tumultuous slam destruction smile.

Busting full of cubist angular angry face-machines running dirt-sprayed windows much 

voiceless television if eyes cranked keep provoking —

in sniffling glass machine sociopath is plastic isolated roped-off earth;
wet-light crawling upward crackly worth cool exact extraction scrutinized
in dripping soft-crust back trembling shrieks, same thing, same thing,
identity stained with a billion troubling sleeps, soul night-distorted,
the king falling azure, me behind-glass, tabloid’s inert, tongue
lifting walls coming plucking feral hot melt of monsters into a pile
of hairy ugly shapeless clay flesh that asks
to be re-imagined.

Marcos Oro, New Jersey Poet and Artist
Marcos Oro, New Jersey Poet and Artist

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