dipped in dark well,
i drink in
black water.
filled,
words spill
from the tip
of my
cleft mouth
appeasing the paper void.

stripped
my skin laid bare to bones

pull away the flesh from my face
and expose my broken teeth

I will drink cold water
poured from pewter
into tall glasses

hold my still beating heart
in your hands
and wring the blood from this muscle

drain away what’s left of me
collected in a kidney  pan
of stainless steel
and feed me to the dogs

I will listen for the clinking sound
of your forceps falling on the floor

hands pulled across
hard
hungry denim.

propelled by night
consumed in street
lamp fire.

in this cotton fort
you are safe.
I am ****** meat
fed to your wolves.
absorbed in your skin
quenched by your origin

the sun
is the enemy.
touch me now
while only we
exist

eyes rolled back
in frozen pain
ice
piercing the roof of my mouth
cold burgundy
drops
of blood
dot the floor in front of me

I like the idea of God having an ******
God stroking his **** to internet ****
And galaxies shooting out the end of his ****.
Oh, yeah, here comes the Milky Way
Or maybe he uses black holes like a fleshjack
spewing  cosmic *** into a parallel universe.

Would we all experience God’s ******?
“The little death” as the French like to say
God’s toes pointed and his eyes shut tight
All of us bathed in his celestial seed
Fading out for a time
Fading away from the incessant
Prayers and hymns
Levied against him in a non-stop onslaught
Of need need need.
Floating endless unaware
Devoid of conscious or thought
For a time… a short time
Until the world floods back in
The suns re-ignite, the planets regain their orbits
And we all feel gravity’s pull
Holding us down
once again.

Aggregation leads to aggravation
and the persistence of pestilence.
Compliance begets reliance
and a flash of orderly disorder.

As a structure it appears quite solid
But the sides are peeling away
Exposing the knobby-kneed skeleton
holding the whole thing together.

         A memo has been issued:
         ‘Dear Mr. Hardy,
         Thou shalt not [insert unacceptable social behavior here]
         Sincerely,
        
         Management’

The myopathy becomes my apathy
Which leads me to reply;
Who makes up these rules, anyway?
and why can’t we live without them?

Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Lifts a trumpet to his mouth.
Deep breaths blow notes
at right angles
into space.
The sound is worn denim.
The sound is Lauren Bacall.
The beat is urgent and syncopated
just like his last name.

Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Rests a trumpet by his side.
Reverb:
Ambrose interprets the persistence of sound;
reflections build up and decay
until the sound is absorbed
by the surfaces of this space.
Inhale.
Ambrose,
pulls the trumpet
To his mouth
once again.