*
I can’t tell you enough about the throats on the bonfire,
your mascara, m, which stained my eyebrows like dye.
I have leaves in quantities. You sell my toenail clippings in bulk
to third world countries like your mother’s backyard,
the litterbox, my mouth. Today sunburn means substance.
You’re a beehive of cat hair in the middle of a leper colony. I follow you home
on Tuesdays to smell the glue inside your mail.
Hold it together
without the plywood mattress
you use to keep it straight.
*
Can’t stop creating new children from the old children, m, you seem
sick of silence. The overgrown patches
of facial hair choke me, I love it, I can’t leave a room without smiling for days.
Take it to heart.
We’ll resuscitate the past hearts for some hours
of weak foreplay. I have more fingers than I know what to do with: m, take ahold
of my mast
and pray for hail.
I want tidal waves in my bathtub agricultural society to wash away our sins.
The new children want big bloated cattle to float like trash barges on meth.
*
Together we make tacos out of stolen homeless blankets
and sell them to school children
because it’s ‘cool’
to abuse a stranger on a bus, because it’s ‘cool’
to take off your pants for a good looking animal.
