Unsequenced poem

This is rather recent. It's already in audio form on the player, but I thought I'd supply it as text because I rather like it, with all its dissonance, and I thought maybe I'd get some criticism. Enjoy.

Unsequenced Poem

The shape of your surface

is skin and clotted ink.

Caller of bones,

Declaimer of genealogies,

Architect of sutures

to dam the insidious blood

galloping from mouth and eyes;

your speech is an act,

but you named me my name for nothing.

I've displayed it on poems, on possesions,

superscribed it

on long nude arches of women,

set it, paranthetically,

between fingers of stone.

Altar-place, dwelling-place

meat and sleep of the fires,

the atonal hush of

the sacrifice; the melody

and clamor of the pyre;

all these in identity,

old knower, covered in maps.

Nomenclature of the senseless,

orator of the sense,

your voice overwhelms you,

overflows you.

I am your erasure;

I am the signifier, decaying

into the signified.

You've broken the pieces to fit you,

you've broken your eyes to fit,

big eyes with sensuous tears.

Your taxonomies, your tongues

only say the quiet,

only photograph the night.