tip of the bomb

May Day

May Day

The White Hand

marks the countenance

of the mind soldier.

Digital rifle shoulders grim determination.


mark the midnight’s jaundiced


Propagandography in the coding of the symbol.

The bug chaser

licks a leg razor

and swallows his sallow tail

like a sick Pisces.


under bomb raid


and the copkillers huddle in

some brave shadow where

everyboy is a King.

We deny The Law its rule and its gallows.

We kill our own martyrs and mark the night

like satyrs

at the limits of our blue desiring.

There are no hirelings among us comrade.

No merchants among pirates.

No cynics among lovers.

No cataract occludes our Solar

Vision of a Vice

that is risen -

Red Angel -

at an angle to the midnight,

that presupposes its corrosive intent.

Hey Mooneyed Ghetto Child

bleeds low-rent television static

from a wound in his side.

No pride among the desperate.

The vestments of poverty and shame learn

a new name from an old one.


a new flame from an old sun

that no longer dawns

on the chrome junkyard heart of

fallen-sweet autumn apples drinking

seventh story water

in this A.M. (Year of the Ram).

I quest a grail-full

of Love of Chaos.

My Beauty’s breast ridden

with Anarchy ribbons

in the wine-soaked twilight of May Day.

A rose blooms in my palm and

bleeds a bullet

between my teeth.