Radiant doubtful profiles

and they don't care who dies so long as they have a piece of land they're selling stars on the radio you can re-name whole constellations after your girlfriend she can blow you under her own constellation in the driveway if you lick up your own sperm you'll gain spectacular powers of intuition now the advertisements have ended for a moment they're yelling at each other on the radio on all the radios all the radios in america my hatred is more beautiful than your hatred my religion is more logical than your religion we escape to a path in the woods but the sky opens and they're cancerous powerlines buzzing overhead vehicles with lights come up the scorched hill just as we're getting inside each other we have to run with blankets leaving our belts and underwear and everything up in the woods including the radio the radio screams at itself all night in a grassy void until somebody turns it off with a shotgun sniffing the pants we left behind we're in the pool dragging our fingers across each other's moss underwater bob dylan singing inside the garage the drumset shakes under the impact of the speakers garcia lorca waits on the coffee table with the whites of his eyes filling up with blood a fuller nothingness is offered by the night sky extending falsely in every direction just like those with guns marching and the condom fills up with emptiness and the emptiness is withdrawn from the emptiness and creation is a gap in some unseen music we just ended up on this island nobody paid our way back home now we're drifting in this chemical water talking about an old painter we knew back home he kept a red sheet over his eastern window in the winter the sun going down would light it up and the whole room would turn red at four pm and he turned the radio down low and told us that the government was spying on him if you lick up your own sperm it'll give you secret powers

These battles in an instant

the watermelon waits infected with human thought the garden is empty except for one human the watermelon thinks it's going to be picked it's been polluted by human expectation there is a mind growing between its black seeds unnoticed the apearance is the same the human readies herself to swallow a newborn mind the air doesn't send any warning shocks she pressed herself against me and offered herself as an alternative to my talk about eternity i rejected her and later when i rejected eternity she was no longer waiting i left her the mechanics of my music but the notes themselves as separate entities dripped down the wall like engine oil and nobody wants to keep that smell around after the sleeper's gone the animals in the ditch are cum the stars in the sky are cum the paint on the house is cum the bird droppings on the porch are cum the sap of the trees is cum the fruits of the garden are filled with cum the traces i left on her left traces on others and in the garden a silent orgy a red gasp one white throat and nothing ever opens again it's a closed universe and semicolons are dispatched like bullets to those whose machine-gunned pauses come at inconvenient moments and nobody picks up the shadows that the soldiers left behind i tried to tell you when it's an invasion the invasion is happening everywhere when it's a bombing all the dwellings are on fire at once and our brains are developing too slowly to stop the processions the rape squads eat sausage at my kitchen table i smile at them weakly and try to make them laugh between rapings the laughter left behind bookshelves of chronology has lost control of the present and now all the laughter is the laughter of the enemy she scrubbed me in the shower as if i had been brutalized i felt the scrape of her broken hands against my flesh i knew she had been at war all her life i apologized for cowardice she bathed me in the sweat of soldiers that dripped from her hair

Speak a body

say my name it is a fiction written by my parents look at my bills they are the traces of a false life rub yourself on my mailbox whip my television these things will respond make love to the briefcases of every journey slobber your kisses on the seat of my chair who knows how many animals this is a slave's house but the slave does not inhabit it the slave is fiction written by the master the person waits inside breathing the breath ascends the song is not the freedom of the slave the song is slave who knows how many animals think of the countries of veiled women yes i know in some countries they veil their women but in america the women are veils and the veils never drop but if it did there would be nothing behind it because the veil is all there is and a man stands like a candle painted by the orgy of his brothers who knows how many animals and every love letter is buffetted around between parades and a big fleshy building rides away from its scaffolding on the shoulders of the impatient who slither through its framework into the sea and return to a ghostly basement where leaves gather in corners and the swimming pools are filled with the chalk of midsummer sunlight

The choir behind the wall

the rulers have frozen heads nobody opens the door to summer spring is in the almost silence of a bird's wings the sky rushes with them the universes in v formations the planets fly together in their movements the cake of stacked worlds responds to a kiss inside its belly she inserted her face into the dream folds of the pillow and said i could do what she wanted and in the shower we told each other that we would never get on our knees for any god but each other and pledged allegiance the snowflakes and sigur ros the whole icelandic island came down on our heads the roof was paper the bedroom was a fading impression vivid from a distance from a distance these lives have clarity in the midst of their forms a fading perfume sends itself out the window to catch a beer bottle tossed in ecstasy from her voice on the phone the coffee tables overturned soothing homosexual plants breathing through the vent next to the couch where we kissed for the first time the multitude of hands have dinosaur minds and the spike tails of their arms move as one thinking to oppose each other they build a cage made of each other's attacks the boy i love swears at the television i sent one hosanna and it went unanswered into static the panic of the heart is calmed when all hosannas are finally disconnected and we stood up in the mirror wetness of polished marble and realized that worship was over the electric wood rose silently all around us and silence was a noise of fence-cracked membranes giving way on attic mattresses

The choir behind the wall part 2

the choir behind the wall waits with their hymnals open the electric wood splices her nerves wounded into mine her mouth above the typewriter receives after coffee and ices the newscast of reproduction the keys are tapped by her nakedness the choir behind the wall waits for a page number to be called the bright eyes of a dog waiting to be walked the wagging of a tail that thumps the wall in all the right places the dinnerplates frisbeed out the window to land on clitoris heads a terrible mistake to think their pleasure was contained in being cracked open but we threw everything a cabinet like a lover flew through the air and like those we adore cannot be caught the dry socket opens a bad breath into the abandoned bathroom where addicted ghosts kneel unremembered in the laundry the choir behind the wall begins to sing to them lonely in a prayer beneath the sink where an asscrack carved some toothpaste in a mammal pattern on the floor