The guts of the street--
unwise temptations scream in neon after-imagined blindness:
....."Get Drunk and Fuck," would be too obscene a message for the target herd
of daylight estrangements and rush hour exiles--wedding vagabonds, derelicts and romantic phobias.
(Public vulgarity is illegal. It reminds us of the vulgarity we lack, but desire, in our private lives.
Which makes us envy.
Which makes us ashamed for feeling envy.
Which makes us angry at feeling ashamed.
Public displays of anger are illegal. So we internalize it and become depressed.
Feeling depressed, we seek alleviation. Alleviation through stimulation.
Stimulation through "Beer" and "Nude Girls." And the circle of life
(Tits are illegal outdoors. Cloth wrapped like brown-bagged booze.)
Safe. Clean. Frustrated for dirt, craving exposure--infection beyond the sanitized grave.
(Tits are a responsibility most girls can't handle.)
Your tits make you dangerous. Your tits put you in danger.
Cover them...but prop them up. Push them together. Maximum cleavage swelling (we insist) but
those nipples offend our eyes. (Cut them off.)
The road driving me by artificial light-
kamikaze Junebugs crashing like hails stones--hypersensitive instincts guiding them to death
by plastic high beams, mistaken paradise. Blind euphoria. Innocence is ignorance.
We're accidental predators, absentminded, hunting incidental prey. Ignorance is bliss and
bliss kills daily.
Love could be-
an unremarkable ex-miracle explained away and measured in a final, dying gasp of numbers.
(And minus me to longing.)
(T)here is only a starvation for intimacy and the steady dripping of prayers
uttered in a language god ignores. Un-
Un-doubting, I am in triumph of temptation by shorting at near-indulgence to denial of....
and make no mistake, the saddle is wearing the horse.
Senses get the best of chastity. (Genital gravity collapses modesty.) And somewhere
a crowd claps to hear itself clapping. Grinding my knuckles into her back,
the echo interrupts and splits the moment between apathetic participation and detached observation.
Not a fantasy. Not a reality. There is no merger upon the attempt (but I moan to show that I still
care enough to pretend), there's only annihilation of personal space that feels like a molestation
more than a relation. (And I came inside of her. She's nervous on the toilet.
And my half-children are falling out of her
You never had to leave to make me feel abandoned. Isolation was always just a sigh away.
A roll of the eyes to a vacant corner you fill with distant thoughts.
The reduction of a mind full of a lifetime to a bloodstain on plaster, an iron spoil, lingering smell of sulfur.
(Feast for flies.) The slanted ellipse of life perverts itself willingly. Sabotage for comfort and
dismember contentment. The amputated limb, that feels more in absence than ever it did as a whole,
will not fail me as a guide to an away I haven't dared to dream yet, where I will be
the Crown wearing the Queen.
get drunk and fuck.