Your stocking welts & black seams
Seem to be the only thing I think about,
Why must it be that way?
Why can’t I get you out of my mind?
& think of other things
Besides the lingerie you wear
Every night, or almost every night
When I look like hell
& You are a glamour girl
All dolled up like a Barbie doll
In black seam stockings & lingerie

You make me believe in goddesses
& The enchantments they spin—
I’ll stay under your spell willingly
Like a drowning man or a burning man
Or a floating man,
Or whatever kind of man is Adam to your Eve
You so like a magician with 1,000 doves up your sleeve,
But the dinner gloves come off,
Slowly, one then the other,
The wait is like forever,
The moon getting stuck in the trees
& I see you is stereoscopic 3-D
Just like everything else these days;
Through the knothole
In your bathroom wall
Can you see me? I am the Invisible Man of your dreams,
Culled from the depths of Freudian reveries,
I danced with Cthulu at the ball of mysteries,
Can you see me, really see me?

Any serious doubt on the merits of surrealism is a fruitful discussion.
The phrase, “The window walked through the door, ”
For it’s simplicity opens up in one a queasy sense,
Can such things occur we ask ourselves,
Knowing full well (and concealing crippling doubt over the same)
That such things cannot.

I wish I had a tool that I could use
To make you step out of your sleepy corridor
And open the shuttle door.
I’d like to see you **** descending a staircase.
I want to see your seven faces.
You are one of the most beautiful things alive
And the reason for war.
I saw you drowning your several faces in the bathtub,
Dying the marble the color of flesh,
Sipping champagne & smoking a cigarette.