I have survived the second instance of the sword.
The way to my rooting is swollen, the butterflies bleed
Black, like the predator surrounding Orion.
How are you losing it so early in the morning?
Hurrah! So many people have majored in double-speak.
None of them exists until I need them to exist again.
Bloody fair, ain’t it, young destroyer?– This bloodied two-way street.
Nobody, from all the bodies accounted for in and out of Earth,
Is waking around with a decanter on their ruly pouch,
So punch and let punch.
You’re going to find real soon that it isn’t worth jack being alone;
That everything that romanticized poverty, and wrought, and tearlessness, fearlessness,
And moving with but a shadow– are all but fluff.
Our sour suspension and constant exposure to the gentle going towards good nights
Are but martingales. Bartendress, I beg of you, please,
Please don’t take the punches away.
I am divisive in the small works, from Perth to Salalah,
Jumping the riposte dulcet, the architrave’s edge left,
It is true that life, in its most comedic, is just wavering.
Everything that only skyrockets is just miserliness in disguise.
It is time I stop walking six miles without ransom.
I’ve seen men whose lives are being dictated by things with thirty-second sign-up pages.
I’m sure they’ve had their reasons, the same way I have my cages–
A cage I built out of boredom!
Georgian Jordan charged on, stepping on the unreachable poppies,
The violet-teeth smiling tickings, kiting, milking the prayers for the stillborns.
I’m sure he has his reasons… for railing on… Is he still railing on?
Who cares so greatly but him who craves of love and glory?
Blessed be the fruit of these thine gifts, and blessed be the seed and those who give the seed.
The almost always unseen root steadies the body.
(I remember that nothing good only grows upwards.)
What deters more than a love wept hushed and bested by the rain?
Every pearl, stick, elixir make the mad extend onto life,
By god-given vices and in boxes agonize.
Almond-breathed, the white-heeled tigress,
Straight out of The Metamorphosis,
Un-gilds three afternoons I don’t remember,
And poisons my name to my one remaining attendant.
(She who waited at the door of the open theater.)
I can hear everything that is false.
The body of me that is clay reaches t’wards the cottonmouth’d,
And the candy-spits of the water beast is forever foreign-ly agile as his mouth splits. Splits
Re-clap and relish at the sight of my progenitors, bouncing on the rafters in fake Campania.
It’s taking myself to make a move on myself.
There, there, in our hourly confusion, we elected a dream, a plane
Where the burning never stops hurting.
“How nice — to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.”
I will be alive in my own crusade, and I will finish it just in time.