And I too saw the skirt-shrouded skeleton that refused to leave the bathhouse,
and for decades when the towel boys asked him, “Harry, what do you want”
he said “I don’t want to die.”
June is the loudest month, breeders
blushed like red glans, fixed
on mammaries and barbed wire, gawking
tall boots and strained rayon.
Cold in the summer, cloudy
on the inside, our forgetting
grown in us like tumors.
Summer scared them, someone left their
Blake out in the rain: the blight was dark,
no father was there, so through shipyards we crept
and with trouble we slept.
I’m not Russian anymore, I’m Himalayan. Ee-ee oo-oo, now I’m Finnish.
And when we were young, staying downstairs at Eric’s,
Me and your cousin, he took me out behind the shed
and I was initiated. He said Mary,
Mary, hold on tight. And down he went.
When he’s mounting, do you feel free?
I read The Blade, as it knows us, and go to Rehoboth for the summer.
What is this dry frosting, what sweet roses
bloomed ‘fore this foamy wave? Friend of no one,
the answer is your life, for you only know
a heap of red ribbons, where the park melts,
and the doughnut bears no further saturation,
and the icing no barrier, the candle no wish,
and the recipe too logged with water. Only
there is abandon in this white rock
(abandon yourself in this white rock)
and I will show you something different from either
your cock in the morning rising up to greet you
or your cock at 4 am leaking down towards your feet;
I will show you fear in a doctor’s brow.
Der Regen fällt auf meinem gelben gesperrt
Und die Tau es benetzt meine Haut.
Mein Kind liegt kalt auf meine Arme
Denn er ließ mich in
“They gave me a crown 33 years ago;
they crowned me Mr. Leather.”
—Yet when we returned to the front of the leather bar,
your stomach full and your mustache spiked, I could not
kiss you, and I bailed, you were neither
salvation nor friendship, and I’d felt nothing,
looking between your cheeks, the darkness,
Große und leer das rektum.
The hybrid, soaking wet,
felt jumpy, nevertheless
is known to be the only honest woman on the base ship,
with a Rabbi’s sense of truth. Here, said she,
is your judgement, your Butch Coffee Angel
(The second sees better with half the sight. Pluck!)
Here is Gina, the Lady of the Locks, the
lady of liberations.
Here is the man with two dicks, and here The Peel,
and here is the one-eyed monster, and this card,
Daughter of London, is something that is on your back,
which feeds on what’s to be. I do not find
Temperance. Fear death by history.
I see clouds of people pointing browsers at your thing.
End of line. When you next take out your iPhone,
tell Siri I’ve forgiven her;
One gets so impatient these days.
City of eternal autumn,
under the green smog of your silicone pawns,
a crowd rolled into tubesteak, so many,
I had not thought life had undone so many.
Gentle people, with thinning hair, were exhausted.
Each man forsook non-organic meat,
And funded the gap of Ashbury Street,
where St. Jerry’s touch of greyhound
bore a harried private bus.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Pansy!”
You who were with me in the toilets at Dolores!”
“That blog you buried last year in your apartment,
has it begun to shout? Will you count this year?
or is BYT at The Artisphere?”
“The hounds of love are — dare I not find them are daunting?
Did the godheads of future die for nothing?
Us! Tellement evident – que je ne trouve plus de sens – ce jeu excitant!”
-completed February 2, 9:30 pm in New York. Stay tuned for part two.