from Becoming

By | 1 March 2015


You are a prosodic ecstasy that flutters away plainly,
like a white pillow pushing past your lips. I have loved
the chimera of eyes and skin that haunts the terrible corners
of this urban hellhole, all for the parameters of your undying
tricuspid valve to swathe and clandestine my guts.
You could not want these physical nothings if you knew them
for what they are so we sip at surface level and burble and smile
and swim. The battery of gracelessness defends my era of complaint
, regret you, temporary elephantine hood. Abstractions lent
by memory shine a wax leather swathing my empathy
to wrong set of brother salts, idiot breath! My meaning is
honesty not service to the politesse embargo dictating
stranded weather and objectifying the colour of hair,
orange gestures and small terrorist cells plotting arson
in Vegas. We promised each other entropy but
defaulted to stress violas ghosting no man’s land.
My riches of you knew no depths but even as I
dived your waters the oceans stayed soundless, passing
wreckage & vacancy, seabirds choking on fatty glues.
The area I swim in smells of champagne and semen
but where is the captain’s boudoir? Sunset body
crisps space into its hieroglyph: debt mode isn’t working
anymore, not that it ever could, & the void I’m
traversing is a foreign object, not your parabola at all,
in fact I’m tangled in musky plastic on the kitchen
floor. Our breathing apparatus is fucked: mysterious
minerals swarm our throats, language becomes barbed wire.
IloveyouI’msorryIlied all phrases slicing our tongues to
pure phanta of bloody hyperrealism. Taste it: you earned it.
This is what we really wanted.
Love as transaction can’t survive fluctuating
interest rates, spores, shadows alighting in and out of the wreck
which terrify us with fantasies of parental morphing.
Our fountains of blood run silent as we back away
from the other-as-mirror, reflecting, as we forget
the doves who rose on tripod highs to siphon their
late harmonies in currents of quivering air. I know
you’ll skin me alive, perfect this morphine drip running
from the desert and wadding my mouth with a sweetness
thicker than cream and oil and grease and petroleum
bandages masking the mess of my solitude, but my only real wish
is to break the surface in a cloud of dust, a scattering halo,
fomented with the barnacles of my love for you: Bye.

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