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So many fuzzy fingers down this honeysuckle
throat. So much like the Cargo Cults, though we
do not go worshiping the spectre of a WWII
serviceman. Instead we follow the prophet for
profit. Sell ourselves to each other whenever
we acknowledge our capacity to be lost in the
pockets of a good pastry or the divots of our
collarbones. Talk of Nick Drake or Linda Perhacs
with the wind and surge or the pine and earth and
the feeling of carpet against our ribs. Of open
windows, sculpting clay running through wet
hair, the bracelets we wear, the exhaustion of
waking up in the wrong beds last night, and
again we sleep. We sleep well and for long
(Hung in the gulf like drying fruit. Temple to cheek. Sliver. Lily petal. Graphite. Bite mark carved through papered night unfolding the powdery folds of our blanket witnessing this secrecy: the bend of our body sketched from the hard air outside this windless twine, intertwine, paradise, night’s rind, the humming of our grapevines under the sheets in service to this frequency: the raindrop yawning closer to the bridge of my nose marooned from her hair melted into mane like the waist of a violin or a hollowed gourd rattling with hurricane over the smoke under her brow: soft crater of a coma: dissolve.)
Mumble your hunger like the face we make looking over
the bridge and into the oily North Sea swirl. Like
tremolo, or who sees you. Like flaying the fish’s belly
and seeing knotted steel. Tell me, Haruspex, what
do you see, besides the ways in which the ocean is our most
expensive and exploited soup? Do you see
it capable of forgiveness? Release the cleaver.
See how it goes bubbling? Where’s your answer in that?
Release the gum wrappers and keys of your you. Now
what have you got left? Those notes on Campus
Kokuyo lined notebook the way conversational implicature
is to say without incurring responsibility and I have
been so brave (I am so scared). The way desire is
a haunting is a window is the allure you come back to when
violently hungover. As if allure was anything
but bait. An execution via
magnet.
Can you mumble hunger? Or does it come when draped in
mountains and smashing cymbals? In the hot space between
your lips and theirs…. laced like unspooled cassettes…. your
hand braided in the jewelry around their throat and — O’ !
O’ God (firecrackers) ! !!! !!! ! ! …… I’m
sorry, that usually never happens. You were just too good.
