I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn
taken the wind for a weekend lover,
argued with the reeking river.
I live in a castle of mattresses
and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.
Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,
doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.
The world’s rich colors are unobtainable,
like love from the mother of indifference.
I long for electric blue,
My terrible snow covers my table,
Although the documentary on TV blares art black and white,
the sound is muted.
The eleventh sky watches me.
Clouds are my enemy.
Hunger worms between my teeth.
My face is not finished with you.
Beyond the town the boys
A world of color is rich,
is all I need in this fog as heavy as maternal malevolence.
What I need is a glass of hot pink,
an elixir of glowing purple,
a tincture of pool blue,
languid and electric.
My atrocious capsules of snow lay beside my ginger ale
on my bedside table
while a documentary on contemporary
art stabs me in shades of black and white,
Clamor clatter calamity
a huge purple spill
generous to an idea getting drunk in the corner.
I am an absence of air.
Paris writes me telling me not to come.
Many things have fallen
into the gaping O of love.
My sick senses stretch like a violin note over
a ghostly concert hall.
Halls are caverns.
I have a hall inside my city
And he waits there.
He has a bomb wrapped like a gift,
I the suction of quicksand.
Beauty has frost bite and is just
going to live that way.
The stench is aggressive.
I have been living whichever way is out of sight
from Age and Lust.
Beauty and I go way back
to a year I only remember as a pile of sugar to play in.
Skin scrubs keep Age away.
The truth is Beauty and Lust have never met,
though some think they are a couple.
Lust’s eyes are inverted in her face,
her longings contorted and her hearth
Slim sunsets sink slowly.
I am a lemon. I am a thorn.
Water finds me grotesque.
Sometimes I sit under hospital beds
and eat away at lives
like bitter battery acid.
Was it because I loved you that I siphoned your contentment
or because I have a funnel where my heart should be?
She is stove-mouthed
and thinks hideously.
Between her teeth are scrolls
from cities asleep.
Death cartwheels on my lawn
mostly to impress her,
And because in his spare time he has a pinwheel fetish.
After dark she will write my eulogy and
I will thank her
and never know her name.
The cessation of Fire
in me is like a white wall of Holy cold.
I manufacture crosses.
I carry most of them.
Others I strap to my man and my baby.
Suffering sleeps at the end of my bed,
takes up space.
drives me away in the middle of the night.
Sometimes I drive to a gold mine and wish for another God
if I cannot have another me.