Swag Shop

Where God isn’t an emotional necessity – desire for union is our most perfect poetic flight. Your blood and circus upon my neck. Lying flat against my gorgeous dreams, you were perfection, but no less a failure to music. All of life’s contradictory and painful symbols running into the juice of our loins. We are deaf to them, our waking selves sleep and squeak in the shadow of sex on top forty.

You were a galvanizing riot. In this newest wake I set out, again, to write the longest love letter ever written. Art no less than the atomic fruits of a fixed gaze. I strive to make this explosive force tilt and bulge, but in this language I only find split sagging corners and dead ends. Scraps and pig skins; mothers, matrixes, circles of hell and quicksand exorcisms. The grayish corpses of genocide, slavery, crucifixion, suicide and beguiling lack. Your love was a decentering force, a drum beat, a polyphonous hymn scraped by the balm of the wicked and powerful. My blackest soul traversed by a corrosive and unrelenting day dream of you.

Your soft, gratuitous kisses grew into suffocating, glittering foliage and flashes of light. The image inventory goes to the devil! Whirling vortices of vaporous phantasms collapse and collide. I admit nothing. I do not call you by your name. I do not call you by your number. I swear by my obsession. I long only for more, for now, for diamonds. I am cartwheeling back and forth for hours (into assimilation, into alienation and submission, into the warm laughter pooling at the crevice of your gapped tooth). I am hours swimming circles around your tender inquisition fighting off poetic skirmishes, fierce, raw and uncooked salves. We are skating, we are ‘passing,’ we are kidding and seeking sexy rust, lusty rot. We are a call to arms at the gates.

The eternal return of the same, the Poetic flight! Our skins, our methods are porous against these copper flights. Fear is dust. We live in exhilarating disorder; feedback loops, floods, foams and slimes of failure and song. We lie soaking in boredom, ears hot for tender codas, whispers, cookies and shards. The neutral and the exotic chords, pulled taught to entice, to bind, to receive, to refuse and meanwhile make booms and black spot bursts of the soul.