The Sunday and Monday poem

hypnotised by growth
in the night
a hyperdrone chloride mix
of dream and street

and a slowed down gun-shot, acres and years
like how my body feels
when I am with you

a quaking whore under the garments of your nails
and foolish wishes to be no dragon come
and steal from
the casm(s), of you, ‘So do you feel bitter about this
and the casual rock and mortality that ask for your ghost as they do flesh//

come apart the germ(s) like seduction, come apart the black lights
that flicker as intangible touch does within rooms of silhouette grief
and that grief has the same rib-cage shadow ripped opened and nullified
potions of reflected

a religion in every part of our cell, a mechanism of burst completes the frequency of the dog-hearted men and women, as I wait for you I already feel the electric of your heat and energy

i waste no time in summoning nothing. i waste no time in adding edges to the flow of the gages
and great helia knock me down before I do such a thing; new lucifens perch and lick at grimores, old lovers are slicked into one beating heart of bible synonym anew

am i staring at this spread sheet in this fox half week like it’s god, yes, yes I am and there is so much clamour sitting on the fence, the fence is crippled like a cheap e-book, cheaper than having never written it, cheaper than cement that always moves writhed into the gasps of this cities denizens but not the way, not the way…

and suckling this, this kingdom of your palm and my own palm, and then the type of silence that shoots across galaxies, this chimeric event which all of my aorta, and all of yours, and all the nonsense blowing away across the desert until we both breathe each others breath

may you wake up before me today. this city. this price- just a fleeing tick, and we are serious in the right way that makes our day move, and we are as serious as human lathes that know exactly how to turn the sun- and this summit is an endless dive of us

can it be true that the moon-lake gasps haemorrhage onyx blue
can it be true that we are conjoined sepulchres of life

will we know our faces in the rapture if we continue to dance, no, we shall not my beloved, and in taking from this pool of joy and vermillion scream from a million lives of death’s covered mouth by our hands shall our bites transform

will we be tortured by this graceless hum of a train and the bones running over histories braggart hymn, shall the pianos be squared or curved, will the corners have lovers or life amongst them

there will be nothing without our gait.
there will be nothing nothing without the exact stench of our odours, maybe this shower turns on without the mold affecting it and anyways there is a violence so pure that it’s throat may actually breathe

come as the water does from a damn system and my feet and your feet are the same
loss covering our retreat like enveloping worm gusts singing and sung, having never lost themselves, can I lick your lips like the Mojave desert

can we have remorse? No, is there something lit by the intricacy of anything you say as I dream you, absolutely, and is there anyway that the letters shall fold like lightening shocks to anyone else I shall ever meet, no

where is the hand, upon the drone? where is the tome, of the unwashed scent that is humanity?
we know exactly
where it is

but we shall not walk through a grave yet
and we shall have conversations
with gravity
because, my love
i just get that one
from you
and that
is what i believe.


2 thoughts on “The Sunday and Monday poem

  1. its not as deep and intense as others but its got something peculiar…death apologizing for living…

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