Something in life lives on death—
Life is what it eats, and what eats not is dead.
I found me dead on the dusty river bed,
damp in a muddy pool of slithery fluids of love
warm in the last moaning movement of love,
slimy, sticky, and fuming like a horse.
I stand watching me watching me,
a god at a loss who to adopt whom.
The broken hands on the clock tower
tick away an eternity between two periods.
Suspended from the sky by an absent rope of fate,
your unsure soles—grip lost on the precarious cliff-top—
chilled by the strange feeling of like nothing under them,
flicking themselves against the weathered flint floor
whose loose, scraggy chips leap like broken petals into the endless abyss,
you remain swinging there—a balance beam—between two worlds
The push of just an eagle feather or down
or a cranky freakish breeze to break the inertia,
a quirky hammer stroke to hit the nail home. Unhomely
bitch girl lady
Eating and drinking life off the book
like processed food and beverages,
and popping life like tablets for fever and headache
Wisdom sells like Cokes and mosquitoes get fed
on your wise juice. Swarms of them recorders and
humming sedative love songs you fear not to listen to.
Unliving to gain hell of damn weight
Chewing life like gum
of lazy words leaden heavy
from the hardest philosopher’s
cuss dreesed up as
a whore’s orgasmic moans
that send gods coming long
like the fights of cats and dogs
requiring a Noah to set sail in hell
Sweeping the floor of hell.
Heaven’s anchor humps time in dust.
Mockingbird mocks silence.