scatter these half-lives, melt them
down beneath their shadows, let daisies
morph their careless selves intact
through the metal life of a machete

two dachsunds penetrate in turns
their unminding mother, drag
their diseased thin pricks
on a street, investigate the scum
on gummy sidewalks in front
of the laundromat.

Now sleep is irrelevant, I like
their movements, darting life better
than human information, can't catch
their runny eyes in the blade
of a mailbox flag, return this life
to the scrapheap, let it angrily
put roots through a skyscraping mass
of attacked automobiles.

Two dachsunds walk through
the washing cycle, become my eyes
in a fever dimension. They are such
pretty black sausages
roaming under a parade
of slicked rainchairs,
stormclouds shot with pink sun

flicking nuclear misery
at hairlines of outsexed coincounting
readers of tiny politics, I heft
the bronze of my lover's strange purse
while she sleeps, turn my own penis
into an antelope, the dachsunds
aren't my feelers
I'm the severed arm under a newspaper.

Orgasm all day, watch her in red shawls
naked at the navel and shins, also
the eyes and nosebone, red butterfly
larvae in the glint of all pupil, perched
on wood slightly older than she
at an organ of lit keys, chirping droning
to the powerline click
of a drum machine climbing
the cliffs of invaded memory.