Don’t worry your head of this: I wish I could turn off the fish tank as I’ve begun to hate the sound as it pours into the wells of my concrete-jungle eardrums, coated with the same saline to line the stomach that you can punch; I won’t mind.
(It won’t let me sleep—the sound is being poured underneath my sheets of skin,
boiling and bubbling, seeping into the crevices beneath my bones)
Crashing onto the floor like a cosmic air-force plane, I broke my wings, and I fell from the weight of the personnel;
no, no one saw me—then did I really fall?
Draw forth from me the syllables in my kidneys, the meter you wish to use:
these words plague my thoughts and it swirls into my throat, wanting to be drooled onto paper, dribbling like torrential raindrops;
these photos pile high in my mind, the dreams swing outside on my front porch hammock,
and it never wants to leave me alone, never wants to leave me be.
Fallen from the oak tree after climbing;
I’ve broken too many bones—I shouldn’t have tried it, for my grip was too weak; my heart aches at this fact,
I still feel my head whirling down the tree, not on my neck.
My hands move from your neck to my neck to your body to my body to everything you see in sight.
Ah, you like this? I’ll buy it for you.
Oh, I really like this. Will you buy it for me?
Spinning faster than a figure skater; I’ve fallen, sprawled out on the ice—
dipped in honey, rolled along a line of sour citrus.
I feel down and like I’m in the abyss of God’s personal Hell—no, maybe that’s an exaggeration—possibly like I’m in the hot side of the pillow that you want to flip onto the cool side—that is I.
I wish to walk on top of stilts like those ballerinas in pointe shoes—
use your head as a demiurgic dreamer, scoop pools of wave from beneath you!
I’m a Queen, and foregoing these deaths until I see fit.
Perhaps after we can about this again, talk and see what is really of this;
what is really the meaning that you give to this? Disaster?
Fill your head with soft puddles from rivers in the reverie,
free your brain from multichroméd free-thinkers;
grab my foot and drag me off the bed, pull me onto the floor and rip off my clothing.
Bite my neck and slap me everywhere, burn me with a curling iron.
I want to be bruised and I want to be loved.
You can give me the worst you’ve ever dreamed of:
fill me with things and replace my body with dreams.
Let me hear you say my name just one more time.
Fling yourself into my bouncing drowsiness,
feel yourself drowning underneath my waves,
allow your moods to be in urgent flux during my seasons.
Talk to me as if you cannot see anyone else.
Hold my hand because, Daddy, you’re the overseer of this fever, this fever.
Re-wrote and re-constructed this a third time. Still applies.