Bowl of Light - The Argotist Online

here, and them
Your deadspace colloquial synapse
firing raku-yaki in colonial spleen;
what emissions trail you, ensnare your delicacies
and drag you up, into the arms of ecstatic bliss
like watching the fecund paint pull slowly from your smiles
the ones you practice in the mirror
if death and the space between stars weren’t so perfect, they wouldn’t be the end
if ignorance weren’t so easy, it wouldn’t be perfected,
on display vulgarly,
the web-toed blare
what sheep corner in your ambulance
pulled over and pissed on, the corner of a fence you never thought to
repair,
some small keys dangling from the column,
and spiderwebs for fetlock
if you can dream of zombies and impossible shapes
your reality tetrahedral and claustrophobic –
your eyes tattoed on the back of your worker’s hands –
your sins reeling and slapping the back of your mind like a Catholic ruler –
your knees and feet dirty from who-knows-what –
your tennis shoes broken and sad, reflecting fate, and, let’s face it, reliquary –
yourgun
yourgun
your gun –
then I can kiss you tangled awake in bedsheets that smell of deliverance; the spirit of freedom,
not Ned Beatty in the woods, holding for dear life to palm fronds and:
my spherical paranoia, chachacha –
my broken dreams swimming alongside last night’s pot roast –
my too-olds and none-too-valuables –
my promises of future selves for us both, at the lowlowlow discount price –
mylaughter
mylaughter
my laughter –
your deadspace colloquial synapse
firing raku-yaki in colonial spleen;
that emotions tether you, elicit your debaucheries
and curl you tight, out of small lint carvings and this,
unlike sleeping, all sotto composure thrown quickly despite the miles