you're trapped in hot pink, the force-field
that you bought with the last
of your clothing. You thought
you'd like it here, but you keep
moving like a leaf while big eyes
touch you through a tiny jungle.



And we are the last to couple
in the moneyed world, where
people pay to wrap their own flesh around
their own sneezes, and a last breath.



If I'm the last skunk on our walk,
let me see a last pustule of star,
and extinguish, my tiny feet, my
short eyes, stepping weightless
off the scale, half-remembering.



The end atop depth, purple-black,
never descending.

one hot azalea
flicks my helpless cheek
I don't want it to stop petalling
I don't want it to stop petalling


angular people with angular instruments
angling their way into soft things
while the soft people try to find each other
with the soft ribbons of themselves left
from the angular people's cuttings


drunk in the ashes of the morning
stunned by trash smells on a mattress
low in the high house, departing a white hive
for the sun, driving a pink shear into each thigh
to kill the curdling skin, ready for cleansed
teenagerhood with an adult-in-arms


emergency alcohols at hand,
gliding everything unrestrained
over the polished wood
toward the open mouth of the telephone.
Time shouldn't be like this. Money shouldn't interfere.

these momentary, wait, no, these lasting, somehow, ours,
the picnic table perched at the tip of the waterfall.
And now that nobody knows what to do,
the unsure have taken over the earth.
They might as well come over the horizon
with whatever weapons they want, and attack me
as I am impaled on a row of long pink spikes,
that I requested, that I had made, using
the movements of other creatures, which flow
from thumb-tips and those buds that taste sourness
at the end of the tongue. Come for me goodness,
come for me badness, come for me ecstasies
and doldrums, come to me all I possess
and all that I can never possess.

I dunno if the flock is fragmented or regimented;
I hope I never did and never will. My tongue-feet,
over the long pavements, tracing,
the mucus of theirs that I hope
to be acidic to all infrastructures,
where will they smear next? Good morning
murderers, good morning healers,
good morning to the shared paralyzation
in you both, as we help to eat this moment up entirely,
only to spit it up as grasses all over.

smooth bodies under leaves breathing through a barn
wet garlic and dill scented whispering between boards
lips brushed in places by dry veins and stems
crying out:

reach me where I can't reach myself
run through vegetables brandishing bone-knife
stab layers heart seeds rawest material
cook me wherever I fall

on the day of my mother's first heart attack
I took a walk in the rain
frogs were hopping across the road
dodging rubber-clad wheels
clouds were strangely ornate and organized
in lovely patterns
peace breathed from the trunks of the trees
because my nostrils were in the midst
of their scent, and

the orange cat behind a white curtain,
purring on the sill, liquid-metal eyes,
white stripes reached, papery. Midori.

you are a yawning anarchist. The moon
speaks to you through a television.
the customers of the house have tried
to stop you from pissing on their beds;
you keep squatting there whenever
they leave you home
alone and waterbowled with a blaring radio.

Clawing my chest, snot-nuzzling, I see
we’re both insane, even more insane when
looking at each other. Lately I get jittery
in supermarkets, for want of fur; your agile hips
inhabit me toward automatic doors.

I want, I want, I want, to be a free creature,
but keep falling apart wherever
hands are to pick me callously up,
relying on a bigger sickness to prop me smartly
in the ampitheatre. Lately I don’t want
to be a kept creature;

I feel at home wherever machinery is falling.