& jargon
the new music
of this esurient life, trolling
my skin for a place touch
doesn’t sicken; the Spaniard
says
don’t call him that
drunk sounds too much
like bastard. I said
bishounen,
that’s Japanese for pretty boy.
He
grins, slapping about
a butterfly knife, slashing
a moth hen we drink some
more. I’m against bleeding,
the
execration of enemies
too far out to see:
the peaceable times are past,
ours is a stelliferous
era
dominated by stars
and star-gazers. Hate modifies
the zenith, transmogrifies
the blood cyan, yellow, magenta;
God is a
trampy grandfather
clock full of mice & click
beetles—
gulps dandelion wine, tattoos his
ankle
the above is not really
me.
