[What I want is to be what sequins experience]

What I want is to be what sequins experience,
standing like Donatello’s Zuccone in every time-zone, 
activating octaves, fogging away at stubborn spheres, 

my sensory receptors engulfed by the golden morning 
light, like Queen Esther touching the Golden Scepter; 
seraphs burning bright in lacunae of liquid light 

fading into night where I could cook moonbeams 
as beans, like holograms between curling circuits; slits 
in interludes hidden in searchlight silhouettes, pale yellow
concealed, inky blackness of breathing. 

At the end of the day we’re all wild thorns, wildest thorns 
of madness betrayed like a sanitarium waiting, our tenses 
flinging, banging our drums in a Bibliothèque upon the 
terrains of our every day Rue Hazard where subterfuge 

fuses flames of countermyth; the lips of everyone, all of 
our luscious lips like glacial calving, these musical garden 
bloomerangs of internal selfhoods alight. 

I bend my body around a cartilage statue emerging in 
newsrooms where I sing stillness only the birds know. 
I might find a seashore where a woman of ghostliness 
like a clef awaits in the storm’s gnashing music. 

Battered lily that I am; holy snowfield-tremors, succulent 
ebb, the new ebony of Otherness vacating, like moving 
a scalp through one’s noiselessly dead hissing in a sonar 
shock of the belligerent invisible that I hide within, 

simultaneously amalgamated and miscellaneous, vanished 
instantaneous with the ambiance of Ozymandias, leftover 
historical voices shattering cataracts like a sinister minister’s 
sibilant pabulum, revolting absolutely like Absalom.