Never touch the men in your city.
They scream through telephone wires.
They share everything. They hog over meals.
I saw all sorts of inconsistencies snaking their spine, making them all the more beautiful and all the less divine,
Rigid as what we’ve known of strife and gloria, singing in the accumulated form.
There is a sort of beauty to accents fading and intents coming clear, but intent has rarely come alone.
“I like where you’ve been. But I think I’d like you more when you’re mine.”
Why did the dog bo’er becoming a fool? Why, excited for in extremes?
Should have safeguarded the health, the gate. Should have done better service for the teeth.
But the dog prefers trivia over real-life necessities.
The god dreams of a coin sitting comfortably russet at the bottom of the well, and no better than the streams,
Is no more valuable than the other gods of dogs, then, just waiting to be observed and waiting to be seen.
I have used to live so many detached lives with peculiar wives, never begging to be understood by hives, even, and still
The rumors of my elegance fading had become a beast to everybody, and just everybody had been failing
To not enjoy the laughs– the laughs as caricature, the boy close to perfection sealed under sound.
He sleeps now by the impetus. I have made him so that he finally drowned.
But I was distressed, so I wrote depressed poems,
But I turned to the elongated for my eagerness to ease.
Funny how opening a book that bleeds is akin
To being welcomed home but, then again, it fails,
Then again, it never reads.
But I need
The raw spirit of a nature poet on the beds, deceased, decrepit,
And legs stretched like the earth’s axis, margins, ready’ng, rhetoric’lly, to be bred.
There lay the false god accustomed
To being worshiped like a Sunday dress unmangled.
You’ll find it later, in the throes of the Capricorn city, when the hours are dead.
He soiled himself with compassion. He is now a man without his skin.
Take it all. Take his everything.
Blame him for everything.
I tethered sun beams onto my skin,
Bed-ridden and glowing,
A carnal fascination. Isn’t it fascinating?
The saddest sentence in a self-entitled world had become, ‘I really wanted it, tho.’
We worked hard, didn’t get the shit, didn’t get reward– ‘I really wanted it, tho.’
We gave all our love, all our vices up, all our earnings and our records and our dire spendings– ‘I really wanted it, tho.’
We played it safe, played it powerful, gazed into the ascendingly accurate abyss, still– ‘I really wanted it, tho.’
It never wanted us back, but still, ‘We really wanted it, tho.’
(Year of Redemption my ass. The only thing that’s been hammered down to me lately is how I don’t deserve anything good from the town that does no good. And it’s not the toxicity I inherited from the outside. Nah, it was with silently watching all my flowers wilt, one by one, then another one, and then seven.)
how well do you know the men beside you? can you trust them with a gun? will they point at you when nothing’s to lose or will they bury you as they pour contrived concrete on the ground?
see in sense, the perennial mylar blankets scutter by the gristmill, the rats of the gutter in their wife-beaters– they are here to feast, so avoid them, divorce them from your sight
the scag scrapper caesura, the reactionary sestina ceramicist whom devoured the philhellenes in a hearse,
had failed to be more than blasé– braggadocio in their movements, even, of never combing Herr Streets
as spitting on adverbs, as unmetric as their ledes, a collection of coin tosses that ever leaks the letters’ leaves
to say that many have not known the ill-desired fates of the dreamers of this world is to kill the remnants of realism,
and so they meal from the convalescent by seething cajolery matted by paltry road blocks and carting road kills,
and lo, the buzz stealers, they are always there, always paying their adroit attention to steal, steal, steal,
and feel the said elation– the thing eluded them by the ear