under the floating,
quiet of lonely.
inside the broken,
my eyes have envy, i envy
their egos… their coldness.
this hammer of time
breaks motion: discoursing talk destructs,
it writes you away… i see eyes inside eyes… blue in blue.
i say, go fuck yourself… i mean, i’ll go to sea, sail off for
some evil vanity; sail to happy lands. coasts of midnight.
how could it not be so, being you are you? inside
cantaloupe moonbeams… dreams inside moments;
drifting around, all that stuff… loathing clown,
my self floating down… you, as the moment in: how
could it not work except exiled me?
drawn down to a lucifer sunset; doesn’t it question? …
red rover ship, crammed with conscience; my innocent body. my shame.
i’m cold in this old bible sun; i’m
that warm thing from of your rib world,
what i’d touch like a tom boy, all, “what you could have said.”
in the beginning, i’d say: i’m back to precocious, jumping the rainbow;
sail to a far off red land of native and nakne; naked gutter boys… melrose in L.A..
swift bird of youth. you play,
a self of devotion;
swimming, as motion. sunken reveries;
drowning in oceans.