The eyes of the visitor were actually
loops at the end of strings hung around
nails in the wall
to hold his face up

The mouth of the visitor hung from his eyes.
The strings from his eyes to his mouth were tears.
The tears from his eyes to his mouth were black
from industrial make-up melting and pouring down

The thick carbon clogged in the motion of each tear
becomes a sturdy string,
residue of another fiery process.
The meaning of everything clogged in the moment of ignition.

The meaning of the majesty of sunlight clogged.
The meaning of our power is who must take waste products
loops at the end of strings hung around
nails in the wall keep up

The bed is a wound; the bed is raspberry sauce on cake.
The bed is black forest cake; the flesh of the cake is
Moldy in the places Eric has eaten out of.
Eric has eaten very dark

Torn flesh out of the cake,
Excavated by his eyeball,
Held in his mouth like a breath
Full of petals of stale flesh.

The topping shimmers like a used surprise;
The raspberry sauce of new love
Is thick. The bed is heavy jelly on a wound;
is no ointment

is no lotion is no ointment
nauseous little fingers
piggle wiggles is no
don’t be scared it’s not moldy is no it’s really good

Eric has fallen asleep and dissolved,
in cream sheets full of fingerprints,
soiled identifying
fumbling with the knots of tourniquets

that hold Eric’s full heart,
as the examiner pulls apart
clots of identifying marks,
Eric fears to learn all he was was those

fingers
trying to pull off his
blank white page, leaving such heavy
clumps of

ingers
ying to pull of
lank white pa

ing such he
ps

The bed has turned into a morgue,
a blue drawer of icecubes with no
passion looking up from in them,
all the passion is in a molding file-folder now

with a sick expression, like a shark about
to barf manila folders.
The drawer of hammerhead manila folders,
the icecube of barely blue dreams,

rest on a paper sheet that
sprouts red filaments.
Something is burrowing up from under this
Pause, the very hair of which conducts bright blood

Eyes encircled in kohl and barbed-wire
droop full of blood-loss to sanded sheets,
Frankenstein stitches are the boundary markers,
The military base is shacks on the sand as wind

carves inaccuracies into the image,
heals petty ghosts by warping panes of glass in photographs,
as Eric droops and listens in
the invaded bed, the sandpaper shack scrapings of the desert irritate

and pollute sleep with wire superstructures,
transmissions that hang human eyes above a wounded landscape.
A Human Being is told s/he is responsible for everything
but has no power to change anything without an immense expense of will.

Three pillows levitate between us and the bed:
A puffy and a fluffy white one with sky-blue blood inside,
A red one with a pink patch like psoriasis,
like a skinned knee where Eric puts his head

A narrow black one with gray swirls of dreamed snow
circulating in an imaginary night where
the entire body of a dream squeezes into a scene
where prayer and confusion are the only narratives:

Eric leaps from pillow to pillow like
a toy-doll-eyeball-body with enormous shoes the color of each landing,
blood-red shoes with shaved pink raw patches where pinch,
shoes of midnight stained with bits of Grandfather Time’s dandruff,

white shoes with dingy white-blue veins in them that spoil the clouds.
Below the pillows, long depths of indefinite fall
down, down, down through mid-air clumps of grass and finger smudges
into some sort of nowhere where Art matters more than Love.