Imagine if we gained everything
we wanted in this Life:
constant amplifier
scooted through Whitman’s
vocal cords—this is the
Song of My Intuition’s Perihelion,
day of direction
-less urging, iron flowers
clicking in the properties
of the mind-chaotic owls
hooting hydraulic mouthfuls
of air-raving, dark mottled structure
of red: Claw the parasite away
from waxy white promises, away
from luminous organs, carrion
of foul odors scented through
windows verifying that
I smell straight. I put my eyes on,
self-clocking. Damaged, I’m like
a pack of jackals clawing
through fields of sugar cane.
we wanted in this Life:
constant amplifier
scooted through Whitman’s
vocal cords—this is the
Song of My Intuition’s Perihelion,
day of direction
-less urging, iron flowers
clicking in the properties
of the mind-chaotic owls
hooting hydraulic mouthfuls
of air-raving, dark mottled structure
of red: Claw the parasite away
from waxy white promises, away
from luminous organs, carrion
of foul odors scented through
windows verifying that
I smell straight. I put my eyes on,
self-clocking. Damaged, I’m like
a pack of jackals clawing
through fields of sugar cane.
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