Da Bomb, w/glucose

It’s a deadliness, a tiredness, a iya-iyaness, an unwillingness, a frightenedness, a pat refusal, an homage to an officer, a strangling of the born new, a sacrifice to the idol of silence, a resistance-fighting in a long over war (the soldier found in the bush twenty years later, not knowing the enemy is the trading partner now, is the best friend and media model of the sons and daughters of the men he saw fall and dead), a suicide of mind, a murder of no-action, a taking away via the empty seat, an eating to pack the wound, a violence to disintegrate the dream, a sorrow-song to sing when life has changed to nothing again, a great swallow from the nut of loss, a deep drink, a face buried in cake, chewing and crying teeth, a man on stage masturbating and weeping, a flatus-womb swelling, a repetitive matricide, a violence staged against the kitchen walls, a twine-enacted imprisonment upon the wedded bed, a violence that loves its own hot heart, a retribution called adoration, a vengeance worldground-solid called devotion, a pulverizing of the chestbones by a certain kind of sunlight after a particular hour of midnight, and from the laceration at the heart a memory of need and a return of care, and a great flash illuminates the dark livingroom, then a deadliness again, a tiredness, a stinkfoot stinkass motionless library of the memory of fuckmotion and the speed of a nighttime, a glance at the wastemeat, a peek at the old dome, a finding of greymatter predominately onesided, a mirror made of skin that grows old and falls, a silence that paves the past with gold, a tit that told the time, a female moustache bleached by the sun, sweatstiffened sheets in a time of cold and snow, a house that is just a stone, a walkway that blinders and so makes safe, a lock just for show, a mailbox with a fractional address, a busy street tied to the back like a fake hump, a hometown, a making of tracks to ruse, a making of calls to conceal, a crying to buy time, a miscalculation, a ending up, a moment that snuck through unseen, a bureau with a shattered mirror hidden behind a house, snow on it, inside the drawers dry.
A snowcave in the tropics or a masquerade. “I didn’t know how important your masquerade was to you. You may have your masquerade. Just don’t break any laws.” If you don’t follow any laws, you can’t break any.
A boot of leather on the leg of a cow or goat. Four boots.
A premonition. In the form of thinking there are none.
Let me get a footstool. “M’barrel chest ’ll do.” I want to help YOU reach the top kitchen shelf. Let me help. Maybe some TING will fall down and I could have a piece, just as a mild payment, not too much, but some TING for my small trouble. Put your good high heels on, and step so right chere.
You good in heels, even if you are a man.
And then you put me in your mouth. Even if you are a woman.
And then watch the big bug fly outside the window, making the muzzing moo and the motor nick the glass.
And so what the sun gone down again. We make fire just by rubbing our two eyes together. Give a lick. Press me down.
Who is that that calls here all the time? You know him?
We met once. You’re jealous.
I can’t believe it myself. Because he took the road I was ridden off. And he stayed on, because he never had the hand forced down on him. And I am I am I’m jealous and I don’t like it but I am and it makes me look bad I know and I can’t help it. I see the open road I was ridden off in him. And the man makes me regret. And it hurts.
But I love you. And I’m sorry you suffer this.
Sorry how?
Sometime I could go down that road with you again, go down that road with you again and break the hand that comes down. I could break that hand that comes down and chuck it down the bank. And then, you’d go on, right down that road, and I’d never meet you. We’d never meet. And then you’d be him. Calling me. And I’d not be interested, because you’d be here, and I’d be in love with you. Sorry like that. That in there like a wish for that.
I feel my knees buckle when I see you shaved. I can feel that skin ride me up and down and I see it and it troubles my heart. A man’s on a rope bridge the length of his cock. How could he ever cross it? It’s like walking with your hands under your feet.
Winding copper wire around the legs of the table, feathers and reeds stuck in the wire, making a fourlegged dynamo to counter the suction of the window. I can breathe in there. The baby bottles filled with shit and dirt and coins and dust and sand and food and paper etc, and a condom rolled on each one all the way down from the nipple to the base, and all on a shelf on the wall. That’s in there too. And the blindfold tacked above a strike zone drawn in chalk on the wall, with a set of fake breasts in the zone. That’s in there too. And the handcuffs mounted to the typewriter. And a drain filled with hair. And a window crystal clear clean. And a pair of dirty socks. And the steering wheel and driver’s seat with the dildo mounted on it. And the sound of wind in trees. The smell of eastern mountain air, and beach air, and basement air, and morgue air.
A crowbar with two eyes stuck in a doorway, having got it open just a crack.
“That’s this. What this is.”