and these are narrow halls where ghosts go,
unseen, unheard, their forgotten words
they scribbled fervent over love's dusty walls.

the dust our hooves lumber through
in nightmares about time and the birth of reason,
that child who should have been an abortion

before he had ever been thought of
since he assumes we will dream ourselves
dressed, just like him – but dreams, who needs them?

the floors are not carpeted here, in a ghost's halls,
where uncaring the years grow before
the groping fall, feeling darkness

beneath purblind eyes where distant fingers linger;
where life tells a few more lies each stinking spring
and only the dead are taken in.

here we remain happy prisoners of darkness,
in these charmless rooms with invisible curtains
where night is a meaningless dream of death

but sleeping isn't hurting
and death is our heroin,
ghosts feckless as children

night smells like vampires
and diamonds and love
several times,

like stale beer and dreams
on a washing line -
though beer has no time to get stale

if it's mine – still night
smells like children and adrenaline
and time,

all of them mine

there was a memory sloppy in the fridge.
it was a partially eaten piece of meat, a sleazy
demon, like you or me, dead men
rendering dreams down to modernity's Auschwitz
heaven, the one the churches all invented
from fragments of their sweatily repressed
second hand sexualities, nightmares borrowed
from hairy mummies, popes and devils burping
on diversity's babyish tummy,

histories shitty as Intel's sad graphics
and devils in heaven suckling the nasty nipples
of nothing; for we are all madmen again, laughing
frantically in god's greasy pork pie hat,
for memory forever is immeasurable -
and that's that