Wednesday, September 2, 2015

And all I can think of is the noise I might make when expressing physical pain

I see myself in you
in the way you are a smudge of light in a dark
space, strange lit-up bug hovering
beside the entrance of roaring
vacuum


anomaly of energy


I read your poems and
I keep thinking that you’re talking about masturbating,
but I’m the one talking about masturbating


and the vision of a golden hand reaching up
through me as if searching for
keys on a hook


hanging from the roof
of my mouth


it still hovers like some drug
vapor, and all I can think of
is the noise I might make
when expressing physical
pain


because I am groaning
beneath the heft
of this life


and I labor beneath the laboring
body, coral bones of
some ghost as they batter
against the oppression of
our strange and
stratified timelines-


Life lines
I’m going to have to tear whole
cliffs to
sand with my fingernails


I’m going to have to bottle sweat
and sell it to myself as a cure

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