new-poem

revelation in electronica

i.
For this is the time of meat where sinews snap
like well-placed hair bands for first days or nylons
in the midst of espial.  Such are simple curtains
chinked in bits of the body aluminum.

Your wake is something I junk out for.
Simple to yarn this out of vegetation, harder still
with throat back, the bare bulbs of need
rising, rising: a moan made lightly, elemental.

ii.
I heat pans like I heat men--
every stroke's a series of cross-eyed fabling.
The feeling of getting dressed slowly
with dark-made eyes, with dark-made tongues.

Nacreous lacquer, I will slather you yet.
I will rumble along these halls with a pitch
of heat.  I will fall into electrocution, blow
winds backhandedly, & nod the no.

iii.
The never-enough blush is on us
tallied for and sewn into false pockets.
If suddenly the grimace loosens
wax will assume place--

I would offer to lick your muscle clean,
frame your face for litany.
Such simple knees to stand between:
a fabric unwilling means after.

iv.
A hot right flesh--not filter
of the movie particulate, of dark excused
& neatly slipped into a cab riding black wet.
The sound of tread webbing water.

Face to palm is the slickest:
your finger to my finger's less
an exercise & more simple register
of bells in movies, of clouds in postcards.

v.
It's time to beat spice against rock
pry pod to extract the extract.
It's time to loosen, unfurl in epistolary style--
rend out codicil from molehill.

For I am the dreaded purse-snatcher
favoring pleather over naked, a cover
to grip against. I stroke records wicked
turning sound loud to sustain the fade.