Paraded in vulva sweaters
two sour green cheek wearers
proceed through the faint pink
airliner doorway, treadmills stalled
breasts lashing electric light
burst slackened veins,
the mountain signing off
through a trainmouth.
We have a mechanically achieving
champion, wearing our tits with a rash
for the storms on fire
in disconnected lands.
Let the dust under sofa
cover your tongue, your backhole
languidly offering new.
We have a chin for the new wearers.
He will march with us into the solar system.
He will show tricks with which to scare idols.
His palms will observe a salt moment
white black grainy old photo tracking
the tracks of the tracks of the tracks
of those healing veins, licking one rectum shyly.