Comet Tails and Pond Water Petals

So, who are we dreaming about when we make those choices
I cannot lay or lie I never could get it right in that bed

Is the sound off are we sounding same wavelengths as bass
Her wish pond rippling water his soft petal nipples

Our sketch our yarn is for regaling among friends closer
Than the enemy’s hands reaching constants and variably

Abundant lurking in the hearts of wolves disguised as men
Subsidizing homes for trading in war games playing more games

And celebrating corruption devotion to false idols false ideals
So, who are we who dream and make such colorful choices

I cannot be lied to by these soldiers of my children’s fate
Is the volume down are we voluptuous frequencies in space

Hands from her or skin from his shine passion emerges clean
Comet tails signify unions of stars with the purity of gods

Pure explosions and nightmares harvest surety
Leaving a wake of lessons and silent submissions

Celebration calibrates the distance between importance
And relevance let us do no harm tonight in our wake

Of pond water petals softly rippling with the ridges
And the head of his wishing well riddles

Fight Club

I will punch you in your ugly face.
It is pedestrian at best.
I will help you; I will help by destroying
The only thing you think is beautiful.
You have used it to manipulate,
You have used it to copulate,
And you will use it to meditate.
I will punch your ugly face until
It is the kind of gorgeous you want.
I will watch you through the camera,
Through my eyes that record your
Every move. I will watch myself
Punch your ugly fucking face,
Over and over again. I will play
The tape on loop, and I will get off.
I will please myself while your bloody
Pulp oozes puss and drains. I will strike
You as I have struck myself. Oh, wait.
It has been me striking myself all the while.

Mutant

Maybe thoughts will be collected and kept
To consort with cunning verbs
Perhaps coercion will dull the panic
See the nouns for what they are
They are individual permanent terrors
Personified on someone else's skin
And the shame does not settle for too long
Before adverbs have the upper hand

Cooking

bread perfect
for your taste
imagine walks we will take
together alone, this highway

leave hot pan to cool
corner me your arms
amalgamate cooperate
rust and liver enzymes do their jobs

a ghost inside learns to create
wedding decorations
invitations into the darkest corners
hardened proverbial heart

no flashlight source of energy
false security, it will not work
using old tactics, now is now is
the time to caulk all cracks

now is the time to wake up on
the wrong side of the campaign
crises and crunches
serve as starting point for evil

children wiggle and squirm
we wriggle and swim
looking toward a horizon
floating behind boats fishing for men

to clean and skin and gut and filet
while parties fight drink blood
of enemies, reminding us that
our home is the only real thing anymore

our home is sanctuary restaurant bath house
brothel and pornography lurk
around each corner
let us clean it out

let not fast pace prevent
eyes from seeing the lace
my panties

the ones with the little bow
on the back were the first ones I stole for you.

Water for Sinners

Taking a shower is now a true
psychological fuck fashioning
a wrinkle in time. Confusion will
manifest itself in raw naked ways
inside my labyrinth, my indulgence.
My God. Confidence arises flowing
from that shower head massage
while the brain quiets down
for four forged times in a fortnight.
Water – I like the taste of your water —
is searing and arctic and brands your
ink into my retinas. These images, like insomnia,
are copies of copies of copies.
Freefalling into a parachute feeling.
Those drawings are from memory – I cannot
keep those pictures in plain view anymore.

Flashbacks suffice when irrigation
houses emotion. I close my eyes
as balmy water runs down my back
and over my hardened nipples. My eyes,

green with jealousy and rage and envy
and dirt, my eyes are greener than most
girls with green eyes. Monsters and dragons
wish they had eyes like mine sometimes.
I think about this, close the windows to my soul,
and I receive God inside my steam-shower.
I receive Holy Communion inside this Holy space –
I give you my Holy place as your paradise.

Remember the poem where the rubble
of the statue attracted locusts and vermin?
We have matured. We will masturbate together
alone, and we will procreate alone together.
Let us harbor the Universe in our wounded womb,
while spirits and herbs burn our walls down.
Why do we let ourselves in before we
really know? Dropping bombs and finding names,
finding fame in each other’s mundane activities
will entertain that empty sentiment for now.