We make lemons.

1 May 2018

after Allen Ginsberg

You keep your dark light in jars of Vegemite, I keep my chest
air in cans of lemonade and only breathe it / in super

markets. Aisles of tinned goods, sugared cereal boxes
wrapped in all the world just like happiness, weekly

specials, flash sales! A woman smiles teeth—smash, grab.
You keep your dark light sealed in magazines

randomness / but a lottery, we’re not looking to win any. ‘Take it,
some more you want some?’ homogenised / pasteurised—‘Take it

while we’ve got some!’ We try to check it with tinned tomatoes
to take it back to make the cake, but the stuff is out of date

—late too late.

You keep your dark light in cans of mace, tracer arcs
explode fence lines / placards jut the sky—hold the torch

buy, by, bye.

We try to shelter from the rain, plastic bags hang limp from limbs
like magpies, our feathers drip. But our throats are closed to song.

We talk stale with muted breath, Did you see the baby in the sausages?
The poet shot by the watermelons? Did you choke on the – – –?

You keep your dark light in shaded cloth. You outline the moon
in pen and ink underneath the Next Neon Sign, you hide

a spill of rainwater pouring baptism
wet incandescence, mother of the load.

You keep your dark light locked in passing cars, sat on the rug in back
where fox’s jaw crunches bones, there’s more to taste where there’s teeth.

Neon glows too bright on all the words, you—darkening acetone.
The cloth is wet face unknown.

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