I have no swords
save when all air is filled
with music – life clashes,
my God, damn forever
that thinks I want it
to shout out for peace.
God-spot ticklers:
now ain’t that a phrase that could turn a man
crimson? How fear skews my spatial perception
of how close we are,
how crimson the music of swords is
impressed with emptiness
that one time we went out:
the streets broke.
What an eternal joy
that could be,
let’s think about it a little more:
fall apart, penniless, cease
fire, a simple man’s pleasure.
Fog floated by and made things
young and beautiful and hidden,
God-spot ticklers of renewable
“Bonjours!” with a creaky world
(but what I really mean is that
the fog is just some mighty instrument
for resetting the calibrations; the world never changes
in itself or around us; we just find new seats
and continue like we’re not stuck in
fragments).
But I need to aim, so I will
aim to die before I worship.
Welcome to the shortest greeting:
Hi. I am here. Stick around.
Til I combust, eagerly.
