How Wrong Can I Be?

A city made from music and gas
-a humor of golden mass in the boiler room
phosphoric eyes launching up;
heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent
as if engorged by war for too long
changed

Within the soil
looking up from the street with malleable bones
like antennae sending up endless prayers
expressing nothing

If not heard
a city, a dome, a breast, a call

And the cannibals were small, eating freely
‘a passing rebuttal’
a glance in the ride – which smiles back
and the world followed will
and the earth gladly sipped
cooks cooking better asleep;

Poems, gas, meat, hunger

Locked in horn
knowing they’re the wrong type
of poem-free
to do whatever
they ever wish

Even that energy of old worms has sense
and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come
from the earth-helping
them back, by natural pull, or passerby
before the parade comes
and the hooligans still
have rage and bayonet
colliding inside
faces

Like marbled faces
unable
to learn dance
helixing
around you
their song-
neither taking
or meaning

Anything
to your own;
the west-coast train leaves
the power station to my right
opening its three pounding mouths
to the quiet drone of the fog and sky
a sandwich and a coach full of drunks
-communing
-inside
-memory

And hail hits inside the window
solidifying
rapid water
cocktails

Nearing a station
and familiar fields
office, and tired sun
letting your face know
she only jokes
when her tongue radiates
later on
when her body
finally
breaks;
soaking the last dust
and it’s ok
if it takes yours

And there is a home within scent
calling out
to everything else,
and calling it
a liar.

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