The familiar dread:
an era of days that never obsolesce,
creatured by clowns with warpainted smiles,
weathering hokums, undressing the exomphalos.
This polysemy is nameless like ugly penetralia
collecting in dimensions across the street, where a man is always leaving
with my life. The whole entire world is such poor theater,
the original atrocity is reenacted without veracity. Will I be
I'll always mourn how the empiricist
inspire some magic, as evidenced
by a thousand future empires
my shower drain.
The gallery fades in and out of their seats,
an orchestra picks up a sheet of blank measures
only to disband like wintered oak leaves
before the strings find a voice,
and I cry for what I've never lost or had,
jealous, like an unstrung guitar.
I have nothing,
so I'll trade all my pride for love, I'll give you a poem
for every shadow cast by the way your hair disappears
into the air, against the solemn oath of light, against the star that
dies in reverse, a birth and then abstraction.
For what is really left for me here, if I cannot remember
(were always [with] me)?
My life story is without a depth, flat as a razor
blade. I'm going to sleep and then wake up
when I can cast this holiday to Hell.
But I'm not allowed to convolute my passion into verse.
I am required to be crushed by the preponderance
of time and gravity and obligation.
My histories leak into the cache,
and then we're met again as newborn
My envious goddess, I deplore my acts.
I need a revolution; bloodletting the old devils
and plucking out their bobble heads,
they are the violence of Spring without a Sol.
Give me new virginity
or take these remains . . .