To be shaped by love, know first
How it destroys.
To know how it destroys,
Recognize love as a physical act.
To recognize love as a physical act,
Consider the body's limits and transgressions.
To consider the body's limits and transgressions,
Probe it for signs of anomaly. Of creatureness.
To probe, start by using your fingers to poke
Regions where illusions are cooked, like the groin.
To locate the groin, slither your hand from mouth
all the way down until you feel dirt.
Once there, dig. The mush will feel soft and wet and grisly
And delicious. Like exile. Feel around for a thin chord.
Once you get your hand on this chord, pull. Pull very hard.
Like you're born to unstitch. Or turn off a light. Or flush.
Your body will split open like a thick *** of paper bills
fresh off a rubber band hug. And your remains
Will flutter like a flag. Notice the bone marrow in bloodspeck
jangling in wind chime language to announce an arrival.
Your arrival, maybe. But what is left other than your body splayed
open? Notice your meatshop bargain delicacy. Limbs as vivid
As a freehand sketch artist's depiction of alive. It sounds so beautiful,
Love. Especially in Springtime.
Stale air, claustrophobe—
a terrible fit for a coffin,
he can languish here.
A good warmth, the kind
you feel after bourbon
deep in your chest, yes,
a very good warmth—
the kind you won’t find here.
Here, is where, as gentlemen say,
“the wicked rest”
as there is, indeed,
no such rest for men like that.
I am wicked, I suppose,
wicked in my own way, so
I deserve the test.
I will languish here.