I'm wishy washy
but we can co-exist I almost prefer it
snow-blue soaked melodrama
being fucked from behind
until I feel it in my teeth
and the sexy playboy
opening a beer
in a slow-motion suburb
of Paris contrived as America.
Hold the pen to the flame, you said
to bring up the color
but I know when to go out
lick the cum off your fingers
see your face collapse in the reflection of the deep-seated
TV we straddle.
In each scene a different
blood-splattered folk singer
I tell them it's chaos
a different hotel room a broken guitar
over which we impose our shit-ass frameworks
then I almost chop bangs.
In a suburb of Paris
contrived as '60s America
I wear a denim jacket
across my breasts a tie-dyed sunset
secret agent/pulp reporter
the newest color-block dress
I bought at the Suprette.
A kindish man--as men go--dies in a plane crash
I know my heart will give out
so I make another drink at the bar
I twist a god's eye
to hang over the folk singers' bodies
I keep fingering myself to keep my nipples hard
right up against the end of the world.
Daylight robbery
for Lizzie Siddal
it's necrophilia copying out important poems rediscovered
in the cryptography of rot you know who I mean
as far as it's possible
to wrest words back
from their burial from peaceful unreason to
drag back
a corpse of words into the the to pull pull his idea of of of
and from her from her as if by dissection
his poems a copied copy of an organ the heart encaged by her ribs
a page ripped from a ribbonless typewriter
for his sins
suppose
the old love poems come back to light of day
with an indelible sight in tow
the ununseeable sight
her flattened organs her face obliterated a gaping hole
a full stop
grave as a printing press
I've seen a copy of the body from which his text was taken
and in terms of Dante
I'm ready at last
to abandon all poetry
