WESTWARD REMITTANCE

Symphonic hemorrhage and unspooling bricolage.

The chronological birth of the light body

from the clot of muscle and fat

and the synchrony of bone.

Where weather is hyper-stated and shunted

or tunneled into the marble of spectrum.

Unfulfilling transfer now vegetal reject

or the lifeless mineral

from the hammered result of gigantism.

Hierophant dodged by om zombies and the hexed.

Compassion has been systematically altered

to invoke the definition of base cruelty

but the robots are made of cedar

in the marginal night of blue vagina.

To exit one must believe in the fiction

of the hotelroom corner and lamp.

Skin will crescent under the nail.

We will hunt tactile experience

in the long and deep road of an electric warehouse

to bend spoons with dilapidated war-veterans. 

Belligerent atolls wired to transcendental embryos.

At the center of the apparatus stands the tilted waterwheel

so close to the businessmen who contribute vomit

to the litany of molecular fraternities

and the powdered women serve cold liquor

to empower the screen to stretch the wrestling.

It is a long accordion of imaginings

played by a silver-eyed misanthrope on MDMA.

It sounds fucking horrible

but there are vials and their golden content

handed down by children on the high platform

in the unexpected rain of highquality confetti.

The old men are beating the family drums

in the polyphony of song that causes the eye to roll

and God to embark the light through misplaced weeping willows.

There are seven bodies facedown in seven skies.

My mother is a boozed up phantom on the tropical street

where monkeys are not and dogs are celebrities.

Feeling now the lavender shape of rapidmelt bargain crystal

or the angle of layover masturbation in South Carolina.

Westward remittance and jubilee medication

and a black trunk of negatives and the orange smell of Monroe.

Symptomatic callous and the transient collage-eater

wishes to die in a high mountain skull of moon.

Corpse pattern, undulating cereal, she could not read the subway map

and I loved her, and her landlord was going to court

for reasons I never understood.

By Michael Borth

Michael Borth is a writer from the Hudson Valley. His work has appeared in New World Writing, SPECTRA Poets, Forever Magazine, SELFFUCK, Fence, Expat Press, Cordite Poetry Review, Carrier Pigeon, and The Write Launch. He can be reached here: michaeljborth@gmail.com