He typed: “I’m in a relationship…
with everything.” It sounds so sweet,
but all human beings are in bondage:
to each other. Thinking (then)
makes me squirt on a parallel bee:
this lachrymal honey. Poems may be
the pimples of the mind – I am
the fuschia frosting of the voice ( I think),
and this is a cue to you to start paying
attention (to me) immediately! I retain water
as a swollen obduracy. The perfection
of wire fences and their pinkish insides.
Darling, when first we met, the lime
contention was an indignant sun. There is
pleasure all in and around me, knotted
through with infinity like a do-rag,
and I’m not hungry, or tired,
or lacking in entertainments, because
doing this entertains me. Even your
absence is amusing, a piquant musk
rubbed on the cusp of everything. I swear
undying love to the stripe on the street,
the dirty subway pole, the greek to-go cup,
the advertising insert, and of course
to homo erectus, aww yeah, his eager
condescension…
Something blurry in my imaginings today:
naked stork pictures, naked…
pictures, like I’m firing at my own sonar
echo in the dark. The naked metaphorical
clarity of gum wrappers… folded into tiny
dumb animals…so the rhapsodies now
turn inward, like condoms on ghosts.
Well, I had a yen for something in the dusky
confabulations of my anguished
iconicity, but that was pesky,
like all the inventive humans.
I love the beading on the edge of their
kameezes. You just bathe in the bitter
light. I notice that. I just notice that.
Everyone is “lumped in.” You have
preferences, although not for me. I
like tea. I am a syrupy pariah with
such. beautiful. ears, and I pull all this
together! Yeah, rhapsodic cows always
hold babies in the cool midnight
against a million telephones that
vibrate against a billion babies: this body
just SHIVERS with signification as a kind
of bugle… whither we are tending…
peach angel sleeves, and today I heart
the heat/ smearing neroli and civet
on meat.
A screw loose in the universal machinery:
like I care. Interpersonal machinery:
all the mean valentines! And you know
naked vultures have their own mean
valentines (I’m not soothed by this)
(or anything in the natural world).
Well, you have metallic emotions in
the listless absence. You battle
in buttery light, bite back as a
stone idol with a candy inside him
whereas I am a parasite who understands
“bell-like” perfection (bronze? plastic?),
and that’s OK, in the way that everyone
on this train actually has a crotch.
It’s (what’s?) a vapid campanula – with
an eye. I burble the already-learned
coyness. “Art is my life,” the identical
twins whisper to each other, stroking
(like foals) the pretty topiaries. Again.
And again.
Otohime 