Wednesday, September 15, 2010

--such love, I might fly out all windows
at once, stun multiplied selves into scattering--

if it seems to leave me in a cold star
it is always moving tides
both inward & outward,
the frontal openings, the rearmost lobe,
it is moving the showerstall white walls
gurgling micro-life under the docks,
masturbating the left wall
masturbating the right wall
moving the showerhead
and long fluorescent bulbs
down through the central throats
a million wet ducts opening
in unfathomed stretches of lawn,
mysterious goldenrod, warped black susans,
masturbating the sides of a barn
in basketball hoop sunlight,
while the world shakes to be with them,
to be a red ray of care
from another planet, to pray
all other dimensions into this one,
masturbating the full black of space's heart,
going under the electrostatic tide-waves

--the lights are not alive, but love,
look at the lights--

to clench salt in the mouth like a diamond,
to work up through a furry throat
to view corrosive frontiers, to be
totally an alien, glimpsed over and over
through a roving windscreen, hung with robes
that shine the belly of the three thousand,
the comfortable millions
perched on bleachers in grey blankets
sacrificing their faces to cloud-beams,
masturbating a high green, near silence
until you fall under the elms
with a face like a coin-plate
watching the graveyards go by
like armored cars, letting the candles rain
with wicks dancing on marble dashes,
instrument panels lipstick-printed,
with furs in the damp corners, chandeliers
displaying row over row of human faces
with stretched gazes, if it seems
to leave me in a cold star it is held
two pockets of sand in the face-cheeks,
parched unit
dribbling, until the shadows smoking
in cliffs of moss shingle
come down to fuck me one at a time
and leave me peaceful behind the waterfall.

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