masthead
home news store events about tweak job

Monday, April 3, 2017

When the earth begins dying faster than I could do, cut the plastic band from where it identifies me limbed and counted then go ahead give my number to the horned god

When the earth begins dying faster than I could do, cut the plastic band from where it identifies me limbed and counted then go ahead give my number to the horned god

-->

Whitegrief hospital magic is gone, succeeded 
by a rope of knotted levers. I meant lovers / lovers / magic
gone, the window contracts on the bed as a glove in covenant
with the neat pad where lover's palm blooms from 
a channel to either side, I used to deaden  / this channel 
with a wreath of chants but we didn't call them 

we called them conversations. We called them meetings I came /
to the table repeatedly, both feast and festival. I was Faust and thrust
thrust up, split like swan like swill spit like a froth from
the ocean-bearing god's mouth that's not a god that's an aperture
or organ in the earth's hide. She's hidden there. As lodged, butter skin and / invisible 
to your eye. To my eye, to the night eye of the unholy nurses and their holy
charge, the you of the bed. 

I gave you my number and washed my face in your best friend's chalice.
That is, something really common a serviceable / dish of wine with crown of fruit flies 

or

where he cums lonely, unsad in his own palm a boy still underneath/ all that
capitalism I grow soft in harmony with hard times I grow softer seeing
you through the regular eyes of friends who admire you / it's okay
to get awed again. How long did you burn memory's fiber optic line thinking
I'd see it

or

someone like me hair swept from her neck an epic mobile beauty / I'm saying
aging into previously unknowable beauty because beauty now ruins
in the gentle seat of its preservation / that is / we preserve it long enough to see it
crumble with world and work and bed enough / and time there just aren't fires strong enough to burn out pretty youth. Or me, I age as did Nadja, no trains or flower
drugs or long swims you can't swim there, now can you / you can't find anywhere good
to die once the pastoral has been stripped copper from its green vein / you can't find anywhere good to die so you just get older. Maybe you change the channel, you're
the channeler after all

or

you open up your browser one day and there's a valve through which
a slow oil drop of rose absolute makes syrup way glance you / oil
so old as to amber a feminine patience which is to say none and the false
language of gender / that code switches for normcore mortals / I catch
my daughter microwaving a bone china dish full of raw crystals
and I guess I have charge of a woman, now. So here I am fertility
begetting fertility and chaos and material war on particles, patience
that every day we measure the lines and everyday they’re infinite wanting.
That everyday must include pain and this the bride whose veil we assemble

or

don't call here if you don't want me to come running I gave my number 
to this god and that and then seared my number into a lot of skin of heroic
odes or hymns, stuff I wrote actually, you can get my number there / in the
book.  I got in the bath an invocation 

or 

a vocation. For I could do both and then ride you the earth's core / my own not / possession / were deep

No comments: