The New Reconfiguration.

The man is a stone
In the sheets
In the blue box in the shadow jungle in the light-shard in the coiling descent of drying thought, in the snakelanes of fermenting images running softly from the peach pink ceiling
The man is drenched bathed soaked warmed stripped of flesh and rewarmed again
In the bed in between the long caverns the red lanes the black tunnels underneath skin in the pipe between the avalanche of limbs around
The man is floating in a carpet of hair
Extending outward into the breathing dark the night licking on the hair the streets slick and grey drowned in the hair leading to the pale caves where the lovers lie dying or loving or eating the dead fish silently
The man is walking on the drawbridge between towers
A glittering tower of death of pyres and ashes urns and silence
And
A tower of thousand giant nights bathed in electric noise and ferocious gasping under strobes bodies swimming into and out as sharks, feral and exquisite,drawing blood, chewing bits of bone in the full moon light

The man is racing the corridors to complete before the skylight in the sky peals open and new unpainted universes creep in

the man is awake the man is dead the man is alive is gasping is choking softly is screaming at the weight of her legs is screaming at the weight of the old bags he keeps collecting the man is just about
To wake.

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