i can't.
when trimming the calico hairs on skinly jaw.
like trip-hop leaching out of your pearly *******:
like magic-jesus.
with porcelain around her
animal seeds.
where i can find:
the swirling of Listerine flushing down the side of your throat.
like swabbing for cells from the floor of your tongue

like swapping girls.
or
(like) picnicking       deep inside
flower-bait.blue
trilling Gatorade apology/  
simulating love.

and even now. inside the folds of dead house plants  
i would be okay if you stained my teeth
with anything
you
had
to offer.
horse-whole in the water-
milky for you-
white as cuticles.

like the /**** me/ hum of the A/V cart
hooked up and left running:
nothing.
stuffy
in the boxed we built

i am more perfect than camouflage
like pipilotti rist screaming her lungs to pale ribbons.
as kimono as Kiki was real
she- as brave as anything

i found it out.
as fragrant as
the deepest rooted thing-
blissfull as the afternoon.
as
red
as good cadmium.
and that is ******* red

two white beaches lie asunder;
a temporal numbness foregoes
the crash of red endorphins tidal-waving between parted skin.
fabric-flesh torn
and measured upon a pulsing
living
purple bed of weedlike nerves.

kubrick westwood.
each micronanosecond framed by
ruler and rolling arriflex,
memory designed and inserted.

moses returns with
tablets gripped white-knuckled beneath soiled robes.
skyblue needles repairing a crimson chasm.
autofleshpots of salvation;
each skinly knot weaved unto one
vile tapestry of red

and red and red and red.
eternal beyaux sans story.
those shanks that play no myth
nor legend.
no pierced eye nor
striking cleric nor
sailing comet appear upon your ghastly skin.

you're merely scarred
and nothing more.