from “Rubble #3”
But love has no right to be reversed,
no answer that could match the thorn that minded his mind,
the gush of the tributaries of the sea
that lapped her,
that lapped his cunt
amidst commercials for canoe companies,
the places to paddle home to.
If I was but a leashed tiger pacing
around her dancepole,
if I was merely passing the swallowed flint-bone
axled on her image?
There was an ulcer grimace close up
that continually licked dick.
In the heat of the american bedroom,
I saw a dormant mask flinch
getting fitted on the contours of a void,
where the wall between
him and her posing in pig-tails
becomes my mouth telling
the way of the night
pounding her navel.
I only wanted to sniff her fistbud,
her yeast of burden,
lick the salt on the Wound
that replaces all wounds.
I can only wish greatest
to the startling cuts
where the primordial makeup
liquefied runs down.
I plunge into her straining,
into the stress of surrogate subforms
of ceremonial stone,
my cave sweaty in my palm.
I am working her crux back
and forth, beating her
with my phantom womb.
And the air is thus closer,
holy with gardens
that dream my life
& drink me,
tight compartments cut
from places around
for the pussy of my cranium.
Love hasn't enough night to be reversed,
because I used to lay on my bed
and watch myself develop,
armed with a situated rectum
and patient hints of thick trees,
yielding like chance to a dice,
like all the buttocks he dreamed
and confronted with metaphysical problems.
All thorns dull in the gale
of light of a heavily
stylized porn video.
Her lips bring eyes
to my tears.
Imagine a language
which can go from
the cervix to the brain
to tear off meat from prey
or carrion that has been
frozen solid, bitten off,
then chewed solid,
like a funeral march played at a wedding,
like the last breath spent
in a roomful of lovers,
breaking up, breaking wind.
I attempted to triangulate
the moral of her story,
the moon's mug that comes across
puffed up with stingray envenomation,
like a disoriented telling
to go fuck oneself, like a couple
reunited in the decay of a sentence,
the limp flowers splattered
against her throat and swallowed
so that his epic silence mimicked
the persistent dripping
from her vague robe, the ghosts
crossing the forbidden frontier
with clenched fists,
with balls of fire.
We will wait an eternity
for aerial shots of a body on
all fours, the monstercup mooncalf
snarling at little people like us,
breathing softly in the shadows
to keep his lips in sync with hers,
her tailbone a wagging peninsula
of the weight of words. With his mouth
twisted like a limp dick in a pair of Speedos,
something told him he will die alone,
without a shadow that labors his decay,
the dusts of her shredding, a parting of skin
for him to enter and inhabit. He wanted to be
of dream only, the seeking of seed as some
meaningful reassurance he could muster only
in the certitude of his loss, in the privacy
that digests the swallowed fork. He could only
of mourning, of giving given to everything
coming back unanimous, broken. Humans can be hearers,
ghosts crippled by the very star that wanted to
have her. We gods are abyss-guessing,
worn down by the incessant doctoring of silence,
by the disinterested symmetry of its suchness.
The ear is sharpest in nostalgia for death.
Loneliness, boredom are but words' names
that words continue. He thought of
a farewell murmur that would say him,
the shape of small lips and large hips
that could score his scar like a blank message,
like a barren underworld emblazoned
inside his closed eyelids, with its durings already spent,
its emptiness pupilized with a trail of vowels.
You left me under the gift of an ungiving sky
but I prefer to surrender, to exhaust my mouth
telling you why something is unutterable,
how the song is striving while there is depths
leaning on you wide from the world. The livid need
to ache more freely for you, to burn with stormlight
of an obsessed page and plunder the night's vocabulary,
the feel of the cosmic bulge. When something is starting
a pressed rose, the voice he heard slick with his temporal indigo,
the diction of his undoing like a requirement
that one must speak, when he coaxed
her yolks into spilling.
I didn't call her because I would give in watching him
invent a woman with a snake inside her, the night
disassembling her like a stone trying to absorb a thigh,
a cheek of ass. And I'm falling asleep, marching towards
running around, not to where they are, but towards a blur
of syllables that facilitates his destruction. Every
ending localized him briefly as he spoke, tethered
to various theories that claim to know who I am.
He felt the need to explode of himself, all those grand
entrances of godesses somewhere between piss and shit,
between pockets of spaces and being and time.