Your bedroom, built of sugarcubes
glued together with honey
and lightbulbs powered by milk. I can electrocute
myself again and again
without consequence,
only feel full and slightly liquid
inside. The
child-like asylum, a promenade
he says, you shall be safe here even when
you would rather not be.
We made a test of who is big-***** and which is
small - ******* around my wrist
checking for a pulse.
Five times a day, most past eleven pm
you complete the rounds. You
make sure my bubblegum lungs don’t stick too well
but paste the foundation
to the house.
I know that you know about how much I
hate glue, feeling soft,
comfortable but never enough to hold me to anyone
for long. The flakes vaporize like
snow.
He says, you are safe where everything is warm
I say, but can I be happy if love
is not something that cements two people together.

these days the weevils march
into the cerebellum harkening the barrow-born
and disquiet. we somehow slumber near-
the cyclones of over dumb.
we succumb to the torrent of our grimoires.
chastened only by Time enough
to **** it up completely.
we are indiscreet en masse.
like a horde of uncomfortable Truths.
and a basket of uncommon proofs
ogling the myopia of our hive
madness.
how we let the squirrels do their thing
is a mystery,

on this globe of woe, our Love generates
the next impossible flower.
our usual display of ignorance is curtailed
by an hour of minutes being beautiful...
the span of our lives.

Sour Sugarcubes are Choirs of UnSung Salt

II

at the beginning, all was a capsule of gleek
glaring at the sun with all the pivot of a dismal Tasmanian Devil
levitating neutrons to new Lows… coming about like a train-
with wings
scaling the heights of Our caverns-
like a nosey Dwarf. carving blood into a river of unrequited treacle.
the Quest of Kings, bound to the bottom of a tyranny
that spells the word for Happiness
with an X.

Yet Love Happens, Yes.