I want a girl with a nasty mouth
To shrink these days into feminine hours.
The wine we taste is supermarket sour.

The kisses here are programmed into marching spines
But a light is heard in darkened rooms
And a prophet leaps head-first plate-glass out of the party.

(He is found later on the pavement by police monsters
grateful to stare into the face of a famous monster.)

I feel better knowing backs are breaking for my pleasure.
I feel better being poor by bloated standards
and hidden among greater decadences.
When the horny proletariat comes to drink my blood
I’ll hide under a fat millionaire.

The heart is a pepper. The dancing girls are fingers
On a loving hand. But the wrist is broken.

I feel better knowing throats are slit somewhere else.
I feel better being fifteen for the rest of my life.
I feel better than a sea which doesn’t feel at all.

What makes your face so cold all the time?
I’m not buying it, or slipping on the pennies of frozen sperm
You leave behind all over common sidewalks in the acid rain.

You see, it’s all going to melt, bitch, it’s all
going to include your worshipped skeleton.

We’ll be over it, making love like sexless children in a forest that floats
Far above these cities of stone. The stone is flesh. And the icy hours are melting too.