The sky drips with oil
The birds chirp tar-like sound
The horizon swallowed the flame of the sun
As a delicacy brewed by the stars

Glass blown bulbs are fine.
The hands are eight fingered
Drywall scurried for bug-licking wires
On a web of cyan copper

Dim-lit crevices work.
The holes in the wall
Birthed wild dust and,
The head stuck inside.
The biggest fattest beetle,
Now wearing a halo of coiled copper
The alternating serpent,
With the current of information
Finds assurance in a tattooed hourglass

Lightless is the future, sure.
The walls talk a rhythm
And pace make a seizing heart
The venom contracts the muscles
The body hangs limp and fetile,
The meaty hooked beetly body
Is foreign to itself

The copper slowly threads
Into the purgatory of skin and flesh
And sews a conductive carapace
While eyes have sunk and
Electrons dance
With thousands of hiding eyelashes
At the gross but nightly party
In the surrender of self-preservation

Puddles of blood drip from toes
The body runs from its wetness
The capillary eyes
And guttural flies
Turn to neighbors, forming circuits,
Of visions new and naughty
Of make-believe behemoths
That blend into the night,
And fondle lifeless corpses,
Pinching dimes with lengthened fingers
The size of men and women

the timid stars of sky,
Have played a silly game
Of their unified absence
Of the nothing being all and the same

These faces in the walls
Like you have hanging corpses
The necks impaled by drywall mandibles
Above blood of their remorses
The sky was always shining,
The oil came from the bucket
The one you spilled on the starry night
When it was reasonless to love it