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Get a copy of this writing in the Mark Fleury 2017 poetry book the Eight Wheeled Doorway of Serpent’s Head on line:

Awake Portal

Mark Fleury

The latest,
Having to be midnight,

And palatial as a beheading,

My lung mirror has taken
Refuge in your gate. Its squeak,
Mouse-matched, can’t dull flames
Whose aims, oil-sprawled,
Shape shift

From inhaled,
Sweet smelling pollution, into
A living language that can’t
Exclude filth that’s sold
By the barrel.

And paid for
With emptied gums,
Eye sockets and souls
From live-wired thoughts
Traded for sleeping pills.
As the chill fills ice, the sold,

Worm-dirtied mind stays high
On the coursing blood,

Deserted or under the scalpel,
Of holy flesh, buried alive

Underneath eyelids

Of the sand falling, hands
To mouth, throat,
To quench maps of thirst.

Worlds burst open
Caskets of money
In their televisions.

And vision hangs from the hook.

Books have been floated down
The streams of banks
To oceans of brains
About hearts cut

And coins flashing up
Through sewers flooding
Veins of human remains.

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