Fever of the Ninth Day
She sucks on a violin string
My friendship is a scald.
tired of the little Mos-lem boy?
We take two strokes
I tell her I yearn for the butcher's knife
on my ears, my stomach, to gut me
like a chili
take these vacuous wretched seeds out
of me!
There is alum in my heart
I spit dryly, with relief
the stress stains have lain the world
in a wax cloth mist.
Over and under, ad nauseum
this well of saints annoys me
this fabulous hand won me a bite of
cheese.
funnel of core; I am drenched
Shaved with sweat, tyre of God-
a tribute to insomnia; the supplicant
wore
a turtleneck of deceit; the crystalline nudity
of a vapid, wrecking ball tryst
they buzz about noontime
carrying on with the frothy force
shot from the cannon of their homes
pathetic pink lilies, begging for
corruption.
little glistening sucklings adorn
these hallways
my lips are intact.
no lovely dew stars emerge with dark
hair and eyes-
this is a different age. Even tin is forgotten. How
shall I preserve you?
demarcated, debased, the friend-lines
fell
veracity, you conform like a corpuscle corpse.
I've rubbed you raw and stirred you
into my drink.
-blather, your pulp burns and burns
my mind
Look how calmly she sits, in her silk
dress
-this death is her life. Her teeth sharp, vertigo addicted
I check her veins, her scarlet psyche
Each shot, the passersby, neglected
haunted.
Rust to nothing.
\
At some point, too deep in the lens
There is no turning back.
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