Monday, January 7


drunken microwaves over you, macaroni cheese;
she’s american hand picked you from the frozen bunch
boiling in yr pack, pocked by forks,
for you to be thrown up was what she wanted needed
because between you n the bowl she got better
and you didn’t look any better any how

two lamps looked up to you, bedroom wall, beside
where my mother ditched her potpourri & lately films,
the old chess set the books borrowed
from outoftown relatives, the chest of drawers
though saw you her arsehole n my balls fixated
enough to become a little more gold

could we not disturb you rightly bedsheets; that were
not yet unmade like clouds after a storm but danced upon
by two horizontals fighting violently for
pleasure? good lovers remove clothes not duvets—
and waited I since the gelato to be myself in her
holy prickled V she kept crested by the north star

please forgive me that big toe on her right foot(even
as I close my eyes an imagine the foot) that I remove
you from this fray and point you toward
the ceiling in easy overhead bulbblown aerial,
making way for her come in loud ship rockings
in our own atlantic chimed through nuisance romance

made by me in me in various parts to collect in
my good-by tunnel for one last salute past her teeth
(after all she had me diagonally on bed;
working only for fireworks that I mimic in white)
and please do satisfy her because I is hers then
and five years laters hers, writing this sans gasp

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blank Template By