on choosing sides
good luck dear quadriplegic moon! there does not seem to be any god standing in the doorway of stars holding out spare parts for limbs… what a drag for you my friend! & i am still just a clock of unwinding meat, an asexualized maggot with seedlet eyes hung in a shiny forehead of bone. were i you i suppose i’d have let go of this earth by now rather than spin its arms, frozen cheek to warm breast for 4 billion years, waving like stage featured minuet in tutus & human brittle. this race of brand new man with intellectual bow-ties & spit shiny skyscrapers, unaware of the cosmic pendulum within your wink. that sable pantheon of hydrogen thugs & galactic wheezing a rouge for the silent mask of the Roche, when the mouth of the fly becomes the swallow of the flown.
o dear moon, i am but flints of combustible ribs, hung on a skin clothesline with the rest of the sheets. i cannot churn the wheelchair you stick yourself in, take a stick & poke the eyeballs of space to red juicy yolks or yank the holy curtain rodded into the jet dead space between us away for you to see straight. i just pray this crater of smacking cues, teenage tectonics & leaking veins of molten bubblegum would suffice to say that we are young pimpled faces with our automatic rifles, standing post in an atmosphere you hold in your alabaster palm. we may march in California skin & speak too fast out of turn, mulling thoughts into selfish grain for the consumption of a fragile framed time, however i cannot change their commands.
i can sing when the tide moves her waist under me & clean the tar jizzom from your mantled carseat, when i’m through with her. i can run my piano fingers through her green hemlocks in the sunshine of today & stab her with steely sunset when i walk away each night. i can slip on concrete condoms to keep the semen of a forest from growing up inside her womb & i can push my coat hangers deep into her uterus when she thinks i am in love with her. what i cannot do is wash these sticky hands clean from your incessant staring while i skull fuck your sister earth into a dead sled of a wheelchair to roll quietly next you in the Great Hall of autistic children.
i am the worm tick ticking in that cold can inside your chest. i am that parasite wallering out your eyelids & leaving track marks into forearms that i would amputate sometime soon enough. good luck dear quadriplegic moon! rising up with the rest of your cosmic shoes underneath a god’s heel that left you limbless & one good eye in a monocle of me… the sun is a bummed cigarette, a good-natured fag of ash & curdled wine lipstick on the end of a cold butt & I am unafraid of the dark! good luck on your front porch with the rest of your low-lit fireflies, in a negrous field of a godless universe, where i am the center of myself… & i only want to be on the side that wins…
quadriplegic, indeed.
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