Condition

Lay down fire like roses,
like roses always a'bloom, but
with a little more boom
than flowering,
mushrooms the breath of dragons,
matter divorced
in roots reaching up
from the crater-pocked earth.

Lather candy in candy, in armor,
in polethyne crystal, in
dead coral spray-painted clean;
lick it's haught-coture hide away,
tongue pebbled in tangy
rust-rhime;
clear rhinestone canvas
with with evenly timed swipes,
careful, dutiful
to the slow carress of its sharp edges;
borders or blades, cutting
the empty air like a razor
parting skin.

Dawn the petalled breast-plate,
dappled in dew, wrought
in the fluidic refraction of light,
brightness metal-born, worn
in sheets coruscating, each
flaky brilliance barely sating
hungry dark, bleak and streaking
black marks like tar pits
searching for pores
in the earth
to bleed through, from
stiff veins, where slow blood pools.

Slight the human condition
by playing into its
cloying, prying, cried out vices,
its tired old tries, tires spinning
in the filth and the flesh,
the raw, eaten flesh, crushed
between molars, enamel flecked
and pitted by wear, by years, by
bacteria and spit; flit
between stations of static
emotion, concealed, congealed
concretely entombed in concentric catacombs
of lovely breathing bones,
of air in vascular balloons,
alvioli aromatic with the spice
of burnt iron, septic, the soul
longing for sepsis and sin,
the need to once again begin.