BRAMBLE PORN: NAILED INTO GOLD

I was in the realms
of comfort, a friend was dying.
No November can fall
on this roof, quacks the robot.
We were playing hop-skotch
deep in Elysium back fields,
quacking roosters
raid the field of night, over and starlit over
again the basketball hoop is
tilted by leapers, moth hop
dying on the old rope net,
grey as the whole polluted sky,
hung on a white cotton
fuzzed antler, space-sprung
nuclear yellow, liquidly poured open
from universe to universe. easy,
all quick naked veined
childlike, right for the job.

Ice-picks beheaded adorn
each helmeted shoulder,
the ones coated in lipstick
step up after and after the
unmolded quiver of each other,
lighting the eaten web, two rainpeople
laughing, two drizzlepeople
nailed into an attic corner
by collapsing gravity. And a mansion
is reconstituted pinkdarkly
among murdered restaurant winds
what holds the palm lined in engine oil
drawing the vaporous presence
of otherworld moth
twitching under rock walls,
nudging sheep to the late flares
of the open sun. You evaded
your taxes for this, you bought
and drank twin plastics of vodka,
you rubbed saddle lotion
on the TV wires, for this, you undid
your fake gown, you androided greenly
through everything, this is youth,
swingset's eye on the road wreck's
parade of daily loving bodies.

So that you could go to the bottom
we all talk about
and go there and go there
and go there
and find out what is left there.