Effete Goliath, nothing’s real. Forgot how soft a face can feel. Touched you once above the knee and felt mine buckle under me. Cruise the tideflats to the bay. One headlight out, what do you say? Honey in the lemonade. Sirens steal the right-of-way. Hot palm to roof. My belt is loose and I’ve got night for days. Hot palm to roof. My belt is loose and I’ve got night. Dog in laundry, cat in heat. Took three years to warm to me. I play it cool, I play the fool. I’m foggy, but you still see through. Dandelions were for wine, their tender stems to intertwine. The pillars tipped themselves, in time -- now Erysichthon’s hunger’s mine. I kept the script, but lost the lines. You kept the costume. I kept the script, but lost the lines. You kept the costume. Can’t rewind. Pancake makeup. Waffle-pressed stuffing stuffed into your dress. Picnicking beneath the spires: midnight dizziness and wires radioing frequencies too high-strung to taste or see, but your tongue keeps glimpsing out and songs dance in your mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou- mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou- mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou- mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou- mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mou-mouth. What is hate except the sound of compassion trickling down? What is love except the mess left by despair doing its best? What is madness except this: sell my lips for one last kiss. Dehisced and dripping threads distressed, my sewn lips sip bliss, make a mess. Sell my lips for, sew my lips for, sell my lips for one last kiss. Sell my lips for, sew my lips for so my lips must just reminisce.

She had a different perfume. She had a different perfume. She had a different perfume on every part of her body. She asked me if I like perfume while we were dancing at the party. She had me smell them all. She asked me which one I liked best. Across her bonny face, a smile crawled as she presented wrist and chest. I saw all the way through the tuned thumpings to her dark-lined eyes and said, “Of course, the chest.” I’m a predictable guy. But how the chest arrests -- oh my, oh my, oh my. I’m just letting myself feel captured right now, and captivated. Love that is not love, but is, “Oh my god, my chemicals.” If you could see me slithering between these strobes, all chew, chew, chew, chew, chewing up all volatiles, all scented dust, like a cannibal -- oh my god, my chemicals. If you could see our elbows brushing like it’s the most momentous thing. And, when she leans in to speak, she leans into me to speak. So, I’ll be swayed, honestly, whichever way she sways. What else is there to say? Yesterday was horrible. Tomorrow will be horrible. Today -- tonight -- is okay. Yesterday was horrible. Tomorrow will be horrible. Today -- tonight -- is today. Hey, hey, hey, I’m just letting myself feel something right now — somewhat sedated. Love that is not love, but is close enough for chemicals. Love that will wear off, but for now, my god, my chemicals, my chemicals. My chemicals. Oh my god, my chemicals. Oh my god, my chemicals. Oh my god, my chemicals. Oh my god, my chemicals (oh my god). My chemicals (oh my god). My chemicals (oh my god). My oh my god, my oh my god, my!

There is nothing to be learned from the curve of a comet’s flight and everything to be learned from the slope of her spine. Once, it folded for velvet and hay; now, it accordions only for velocity and flame while he counts his years in lost lipstick caps and the minutes between when she seems to want them back. She was wild in the wild and, at home, wild, too. In the thousand dark drafts between the slats of her walls, her hair was loose and large and alive above her eyes. She made him start a fire for her between the summer’s pines. She thought it would be warm and let her lay her head amongst his sighs long into the night, but a careless caress is as good as a spark and he ran his hand down her arm and ignited the dark. Over the dirt and dirty stones, it threw itself into their homes. It threw itself into the bones below their homes. One hot mouth can hold a thousand screams but one silence can contain all they ever meant to mean. They never had to count on hope till it was running out, until a late summer cloud unzipped itself and let the saving rains pour down -- till he was crawling toward her, lost in love that sucked like mud and she was coughing his lost name in wild smoke circles rising up from the charred woods. The tree top. The worm trail. The raindrop. The detail: refracted light that might not bend again. The tree top. The worm trail. The raindrop. The detail: refracted light that might not bend again. She tucked her hair behind her ear, the vision growing close and clear: a golem or a chevalier buried in ash, wet earth, and fear -- his searching limbs still reaching out for her, rigored as they were. Over the dirt and dirty stones, it threw itself into her home. It threw itself into the bones below her home. One hot mouth can hold a thousand screams but one silence can contain all they ever meant to mean.

I have placed this ruby against my lips. I will hold it here till one of us ever needs to speak again and then I will swallow it, edge by shining edge. The rain is slinking nearer now to slicken every ledge. But brusque brevity beats incessant babbling, I truly, truly believe. Just don’t trust you’ll see such sublimity from me — it’s like I need to speak to breathe. I was not a traveler by trade. You were dripping bits of sunshine. I was trying to maintain shade. We paddled to the middle of a lake, got carried to its curvature on a wake, and on the bank we drank something swizzled till it all evaporated, till what’s unsaid got elevated to what’s unstated. Now you say you’ll be away for awhile. Isn’t that nice? Oh, isn’t that so your style? If you’re wondering, I’ll be wandering up and down this tiny town, single file. But brusque brevity beats incessant babbling, I truly, truly believe. Just don’t trust you’ll see such sublimity from me — it’s like I need to speak to breathe. How high is the heat gonna have to climb? The typhoon’s counterclockwise and right on time. And I am here below you: all bones in your shadow, all mercy a faint vapor on your lip. The rain came and went, and the sun with it, but love like this will recrudesce again. So I have placed this ruby against my lips and I will hold it here till one of us ever needs to speak again. It better be loud, better be a shout, ‘cause there’s no hearing from me now. It better be loud, better be a shout, the sweat rappelling down your brow. It better be loud, better be a shout, ‘cause when the rains return, the worms come out. When the rains return, the worms come out. When the rains return, the worms come out. When the rains return, the worms come out like words from your mouth.

There were years with your body without you in it — heart going, hands and legs trembling. There were years with your body without you in it — tears flowing, lemonade bittering. There were years with your body without you in it — separating pain from pleasure like broken eggs. There were years with your body without you in it — at a gallop or collapse, it’s all the same. Then he called you. Then he finally called you. He called you, he called you. Later, they saw you like magicians saw you, all metal and mirror, dragging your body to him to suffer the sweat of his cage, the sweat of his cage. Dragging your body to him to suffer the sweat of his cage, the sweat of his cage. Sadness elongates every space. Feel the room growing too meaningless to escape. Feel the heat of the windows, unopened and undraped. In sodium street light, even the wild grass wants to be clover. We stand in the field all afternoon. Our anger breaks dumb into dance, stomping rakes of feather and gold in the junkyard of our joy, where songs bark chainlong and claim it’s him heaven’s heard, unable to repeat the words. But there were years with your body without you in it. Then he called you. Then he finally called you. He called you, he called you. Later, they saw you like magicians saw you, all metal and mirror. In sodium streetlight — heart going, heart going. In sodium streetlight — heart going, heart going, going, going, gone, gone, gone. Going. Going. Gone, gone, gone.

Would you say you tried your hardest? Would you say you tried at all? How hard would it have been to answer my call? Would you say you truly suffer when you do a simple thing? I know you know real people who know real suffering. Show up, show up, show up or I won’t. No love, no love, no love is this cold. It’s getting hard to fit your bedding on the couch. It used to have a dent to settle into; we have nothing now. Spaces I made for you are turning themselves dark. I only know they’re there from the distortions of my heart. Show up, show up, show up or just don’t. No love, no love, no love is this remote. I’ve seen you put more effort into unimportant things. If they bring you such happiness, what am I to bring? Show up, show up, show up or I won’t. No love, no love, no love is this cold, I’m told.

Crawling onto the cave wall, a 101 pedant disguising the malt on my tongue with a huff. Incapable even of leaving the weedlings to breathe in the fissures. I lizard them off. Stained glass and copper-toned modesty panel sweeping over the interstices of your skin. Reclining bikinied, a muscle gun spineside, telling strangers your secrets are secret again. We stop one inch away from kissing every night now, and this old pile of clothes is just waiting for the bones to all shake out. And I’ve had enough of the road -- all the shows were so long ago, anyhow -- but I’m driving away anyway, heading for a breakdown. I’m driving away -- any way -- heading for a breakdown. I’m driving away -- any way -- heading for a breakdown. Heading for a breakdown. Don’t you ever get dizzy bouncing from cloud to cloud to cloud, seam ripper to silver till the acid spills out? Don't you ever admit you get too far inside yourself, that some seeds are just buried watching others sprout? Decided I wouldn’t drink when I feel sad or angry. It’s strange to be sober for so long. But the tide goes out and you can’t explain it. I know I think I can, but I know I’m wrong. We stop one inch away from kissing every night now, and this old pile of clothes is just waiting for the bones to all shake out. And I’ve had enough of the road -- all the shows were so long ago, anyhow -- but I’m driving away anyway, heading for a breakdown. I’m driving away -- any way -- heading for a breakdown. I’m driving away -- any way -- heading for a breakdown. Heading for a breakdown. Heading for a break. Break down.

The girl with a pearl earthling in a crystal bell jar, kept so plumply fed. She is not a ghost. She’s not departed. She is what’s tucked behind the ear of an aching swain’s head. She is what pulls the taffy teeth, what bleeds the gums, what bites what’s said. It is spectacular to see her, all dimpled chin and pointing hands indicating demarcations beyond which no wild hoof meets land — beyond which the wildness is itself a lightness untethering flight from mechanics of man. It is a hydroponic nutrient solution she flings as she shakes off the dew of the dead, dumb day. Lucky enough to be near her body is lucky enough to nibble and sate, sate, sate. Say thoughts for the bell jar. Say thoughts to be captured. Say thoughts to be held by her once, in her way. Say thoughts to be nacreous naked, not mineral dust she just scoops up and scatters away, scatters away. The girl with a pearl earthling in a crystal bell jar, kept so plumply fed. She is not a ghost. She'll not depart yet. She is what’s tucked behind the ear of an aching swain’s head. She is not not not a ghost. She’s not departed. She’s not departed.

River of stone. River of light. River of salt and blush wine. Dig in the silt. Dig in the mud. Dig in alluvium, fine. Do your worst dig in the deepening rift. In the end, it will all be coastline. Sinking treads and sense of dread, sand, your machinery sticking to me. River of stone. River of light. River of salt and blush wine. Dig in the silt. Dig in the mud. Dig in alluvium, fine. Leverage pull. Too much. Too engulfed. A surfeit of small sufferings and a shore always begging for more and more, always right on time with the tide and tea. River of stone. River of light. River of salt and blush wine. Dig in the silt. Dig in the mud. Dig in alluvium, fine.

Criminal Chelsea, raccoon eyes. Go to art school. Make all the guys fall in love, for once, with something other than impressing each other. I’m cruising through the curves and the closes of the city I kept somewhere, like a streetlight star chart, in my head. Hilltop gives out beneath me and I’m spilling through the city like fog forgetting fog’s a liquid that’s forgotten not to try to get up. Used to know her whole face just as well as I know my smug own, but, at best, it’s a distortion now. Some seafoam, rolled and blown. Predictably-unfinished needlepoint, threads hanging long. Course, when I linger in the mirror, my own face is so gone. When I linger in the mirror lately, my own face is so gone. When I linger in the mirror lately, my own face is so gone. Criminal Chelsea, raccoon eyes. Go to art school. Make all the guys fall in love, for once, with something other than impressing each other. It thuds my chest to think about: I love you more, I love you now, I love you how I hoped I still could love. But, if it does get murky — your picture in my mind — there’ll be no rope to tow me back from the brackish brine, so I keep my drive, I keep my drive alive, yeah. Criminal Chelsea, raccoon eyes. Go to art school. Make all the guys fall in love, for once, with something other than impressing each other. Criminal Chelsea, never compromise. Paint yourself in perfect light. Fall in love, for once, with something better than being remembered.

Cliffside lodgepole pines: the coastline’s green bloodline in decline. I’m supine and resigned to be fine. What's one more crossed drawn line in the sand — in my hand, one more plan abandoned? I refined the strychnine, mixed it with quinine and thickened with red wine, then mainlined that moonshine — the needle as unreal as my spine. And all this ocean breeze never succors me to breathe. It’s just another westerly calliope. And the stars over the sea, they never shine for me. Completely out of sync, we seem to be. It’s only when I blink they’re twinkling, and I cannot adjust my shuttering. Cliffside lodgepole pines: the coastline’s green bloodline in decline. I’m supine, but don’t try; I’ll be fine. Don’t try; I’ll be fine. Don’t try; I’ll be fine. Don’t try; I’ll be fine. Don’t try; I’ll be fine. Don’t try; I’ll be fine. Don’t try; I’ll be fine. With each lie, the pines creak, sigh.

The sun went down. The moon came out (your hair a crown of park weeds, now). I’m stunned and trying to figure out how anything could leave my mouth and land for you the way everything you sing or say — for me — resounds. Unhealthy, maybe, to obsess about you lately, but my heart is going to break me. And I know no one should save me, but it seems like your icy eyes could try, and I’m here and you’re here. Are you my ride? Somehow, in my mind, I’m always glancing at the parts of you that aren’t even dancing. I need to see offscreen to really drink of the scene without the tint of the lenses’ inconsistent, relentless enhancing. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who never seems to ever seem to really get through. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who chooses to chew digitalis, monkshood, and yew. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who propositions all petals to open toward you. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who drags their disappearance out like all long sunset shadows do. The sun went down. The moon came out. You’re soaring past the speed of sound. I’m left in mud that once was ground and not much else is still around. I’ve got my home, got my frown — nothing else I’d want to lay claim to in this town. There’s been darkness I thought must be just us and dark thoughts I thought of as justice, but these watched pots just froth up with soft lust and the rot at my core is just sawdust with tenebrous purpose. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who never seems to ever seem to really get through. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who chooses to chew digitalis, monkshood, and yew. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who propositions all petals to open toward you. Someone’s gotta be the one who’ll be the one who drags their disappearance out like all long sunset shadows do. The light came back. I’m scared of that. The light came back. I’m scared of that. You might come back. I’m scared of that. There’s no fallback. I’m scared of that. The light came back. I’m scared of that. You might come back. I’m scared of that. The light came back. I’m scared of that. You might come back. I’m scared of that. The light came back. I’m scared of that. The light came back. I’m scared of that. You might come back. I’m scared of that. There’s no fallback. I’m scared of that. The light came back. I’m scared of that. You might come back. I’m scared of that. The light came back. I’m scared of that. You might come back. I’m scared of that. I’m scared of that. I’m scared of that. I’m scared of that and that and that and that and that.

Porch light on and ice all gone and crane flies at the jamb, she pulled the door behind her hard and lit the hallway lamp. Like a single blood cell lingering in an artery’s mesh stent, she shambled to the bathroom, moving barely inch by inch. She flipped a switch. The filament hissed lonely as the rest. It was dim and dimly orange, and she unzipped her dress, which, somehow, in the eventide, was beaming iris blue. There would be no parties from now on for him not to come to. But dancing is desperate with no one to see, so she leaves dreams of leaping to inchoacy. A forkful of cake with the icing turned stiff and it’s off to her bedroom, all in and adrift. The length of a minute: awake or asleep, which side of the door, who’s needed, who needs, how trapped is the stomach, how awful the pause, how bitter the extract, how certain the lungs, the lungs? And where was he while she watched for his framework to emerge from amidst the listing willows where her reveries converged? He was home and holding only to the safety in his fist and the foam he motioned over himself as all onanists. As a clay-worker must draw a scalpeled line to build a face, so he must cut away the excess for something real to take its place. He was pulling the blade head to toe in calculated strokes, lingering for hours at the meat, his begging throat. But who is a watch hand to tell a man’s wrist when to quicken its pulse, when to widen its slit? The redshift, the blueshift, dilations of time — these slip through his fingers like rippling chimes. The length of a minute: awake or asleep, which side of the door, who’s needed, who needs, how trapped is the stomach, how awful the pause, how bitter the extract, how certain the lungs, the lungs?

I was scared of what I saw when I kept watching, but every appetite is shame, not hunger. Blow out the candle just to smell the smoke. What wicked hand will reach out of this painting? What whetted palette threatens to make another? Those dead eyes are the deadliest. Come stare me stiff and scare me into stillness. Come run your veil across me and rip-flip it. Come drag my lip a minute in your tooth-touch. Come slap out of my hand all understanding. Come plunge into my chest the throbbing darkness. Come plunge into my chest, the throbbing darkness. It’s honestly okay to remember how sad you can feel. Look at pictures of her. The subject gets blurred: there are thighs, there are lines, there are lights in the sky; keep those irises peeled. These things she screams at me: “I am without inbetweenness. I am here for endings and beginnings, not scraps of scraps of scraps of scraps of scraps of weakness and the forgottenness of breathing out just to breathe in again and out and in again and out against the wind.” Come stare me stiff and scare me into stillness. Come run your veil across me and rip-flip it. Come drag my lip a minute in your tooth-touch. Come slap out of my hand all understanding. Come plunge into my chest the throbbing darkness. Come plunge into my chest, the throbbing darkness. Well, I heard on that same wind she’s a doctor now. Well, that makes sense — she was always telling me I’m sick, and how sick. I still, sometimes, accidentally arrange her face in a heap on my plate, but I’m not hungry anymore. I know I said I wasn’t before, but I’m not hungry anymore. I know I said I wasn’t before, but I’m not hungry anymore. I know I said I wasn’t before, but I’m not hungry anymore. I know I said I wasn’t before, but what’s a fall, what’s a fall without a floor?