Collapsed over thē, in thē, on the Irregularities of thē,
Congruent to her Heart, and Myself: a Constant Slur of Backwash, that is, Itself, a Vanishing Point, of the
Figure, who Comes, to your Door, in a Stupor, and Whispers ‘I’ve Been Welcome’, Before the Coming, of
the Closure, in thē;— Dawn Flutters in the Everyday Punctuation
of Desire, for the Narrative, Itself,
Crushed like a Bed Bug, between your Pristine Fingers, and those Eyes that
Slowly Slopen; —And the Uncracked
Books keep Piling up, And the Beatings Keep Beating and yet, We keep Trilling-Away like two Rapid Dogs,
Drugged on the soap of thē;— this time, I’m just Channeling my Mother who’ll have Engraved
on her Grave: “Always Giddy to Glide and the Cock” and “His Dick Precedes the
Frown”;— this is not what I had Intended for a Teammate in Faith, or Running up
the Rind of my own Mind: Toiling in the inherent Famine of an Ellipses, a
Valedictory Soliloquy on the Manured Solipsism Spay;—Always this is Ending,
or Beginning, or Delayed;— the Loot Found in the Loo;— AS IF: a Magical Ball-Sack,
Resting Heavy in the Hand, Mash-Potatoed
in the Mouth: Grappling with a Vacuum, and from which, Together, we Push an Entire City from the Crumbling
Ramparts and the Cheeks of the in thee;—
Perhaps then, this IS my Open
Invitation to get a Weave or, at the very least, to Bow, to your Breasts, in a Mish-Mash of Backwash and Flickering
Plumes of Light in a Mid-July Night.
