KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
Now that my love has turned around and I can see his evil face
I have thrown up dogs and cats representing sorrow.
When I pick up a book and open it, it is dead.
I cannot feel when I read the interior design
of the refined soul
and even the ugly poem is refined.
Oliver, what can you do for me as a gingery dream,
the sweetest of white boys
can conspire with me and my triangulated support
of their violent home improvement.
There is nothing you can do for me.
I can no longer write from the soul
because this is my soul now,
the landscape is fertile and I am in exile.
United garbage of the world,
what can I do for me and what can I do for you,
how do I know the beauty of the world,
how can I show yourselves
when you are trapped inside a grand maison?
What can I stand?
I stand for the ones who are lying down I stand
for my asexual thunder
the instant stream
stops time and halts the black gauze carriage.
Is it different when you step in?
The instant cannot flow
The center cannot hold
Soft butcher soft femme soft devotional butcher
soft pain soft radish soft radical sex water
When I take you in the water is frozen but we fall throughout.
You are a downtrodden rainbow of abuses and mistakes
and the most gorgeous of reflectors.
Baby toaster, sparks flying, your body sputters
set fire to my hair and clothes
slowly the mechanics break.
Everybody has a heart but I do not
I have an academic wound and a hungry soul
I have a stomach that touches
envelops your rusty pink box
you are a coughing divinity wrapped in hydrochloric acid
my coughing heart
I fill in the cracks.
I came into this world to love you but I was born
without the organ of love.
During lovemaking there is a funny stuttering noise in the hole
and you realize that holography is the absent response
and every hyperglorified technological advance is a congenital failure.
The gullet politesse of have a nice text
compounded digital sweetness of fingers in the hole
and their ancient war drum
white space around the black key notes strum strums
Mary will accept the obliterative.
Mary will accept the sweet cold nodes of the cables.
The holes in your text seem to signify some kind of terror
which I see as the backside of erasure
if you should ask what the other
side of an eraser is:
When I am a pale man I drag my luggage in a suit
and its coarse hairs fluctuate
in the air conditioned wasteland of future ruin.
Ghosts are more powerful than fathers because they are pure surface,
layers upon hysteric layers of surface.
The ambiance of your dying skin besieges me. With such illiteracy
I hope to reach the dead within you.
the screen is more skin where skin folds
if gravity inside has pulled / puckered growth
Isabella showed me how primates sex it without thumbs preen
you put your superglow in me
the virus breaks in kubla khan
a stately pleasure doesn’t slit the slit
inside you are planets like panic on epic time
and I am the hexagonal earthsuckling ring
Fee demands a reading
the fluid cannot go above the line that means you are a beast.
Jesus came back a soft monkey,
Did u have sex with him Mary? Did Mary come out of your hole?
Did mary dry up with the cotton to make the shape of sanity?
Test my entity, my hand is clammy with old butter
that is spread across the weak. I see Mary high up.
She is glowing with many linen lips. She falls down to us.
Large appendages touch her, Mary
coming to swallow the beaten figures within us.