late last night:
of perhaps… the safest of places
from those early, freer years that
then dried up
and hardened as burnt-brown earth..
long-suspended, poorly preserved and
somehow… I felt it
observe me intently,
the saddest of ways…
before crumbling altogether
into the dirt.
From Book IV
And if you look
closer, the street
had always stretched to the floor
of your living room, for soles
in restless transit. And soon,
we find it is to be left
with less and less, the more
one learns abandon. By now,
you’re used to spectacles
of homes becoming houses and
live farther away, but dwell
in missing memorabilia.
It is nature, in
all probability, that
tells us to leave things broken
when there’s too little left
to make them whole. And the street
will last longer than the strays
asleep on the sidewalk, as our rooms
are meant to outlast us. So,
before things cease to matter,
to have our own hands
tear down the deserted manors
of our own damage, than
see them annexed
and reclaimed by the lasting reign
of grime and green.
I’d like all my bones
to scREAM HEAVY METAL!! when I die..
as headbanging hoodlums
rive asunder my lifeless corpse, limb from limb.
my naked meat to putrefy
in rush hour traffic (but far
away from little children), with all
the world and its scavenging animals
powerless to efface the spectacle, the stench from existence!
may witness and
the futility of prior experience and
the violent indignity of inevitable decay.
when the worms are finally finished
with their slow desecration of all my flesh,
I’d like it very much
for my baked hair, blackened nails
and the remnants of hollowed bones
—to be used
for creating instruments of loud music
and subversive art.
Despite the suits,
the wheels or fancy shoes,
of your specialized gesticulations,
exorbitant dresses or customized ornamentation,
the fetishized finesse
to glaze evenly each unsophisticated edge,
how much we remain animals,
we act when startled
or smell in a while, if left alone and dead.