On thorns, on thighs. On waitresses.
On glue and glass. Admirers, gossips,
disfigurement. The parenthetic ear.
The alley bleeding. The cure in the
ending. Uneventful lover. A dead
mob. A dead spy. She would call me
“Clit Puppy” and sneer. A cage made of
fur. Ohm bathtub. Debris injected
back into the bomb. The antidote
in the babble. He is called “Baptism of
Thunderstorms.” The Most Purred.
A bag of oxygen. Freemason
having a stroke. Devious pupa.
Kimberly. Drizzles. Nymphs. Privacies.
The ashes of a wolf. Force-fed.
Arsonist and bookseller. Inside the
hydrant, a placenta, a snake. Called
my local monastery. The discovery
of science. Sunset. The Monitored
Sexline. The Headphone Dividend.
Stationmaster’s phone charger,
neighbors, outlines of the sunflower.
Of a method for chewing fingerprints.
Of the publication of the Enemy. Of
gratitude. Of the thorn in the tone.
Of the tattoo against her lip.
Kimberly plays the arsonist
and most in the theatre melt
in their helplessness, in their seats,
effigy / instrument / ecstasy / bandages,
the curtains closing, burning away…
Kimberly inhabits some dead Emily Dickinson
as a cavity digging its own burial
in the calcium, fingering the
sweetener, peeling cigarette into pen…
As malignant as intelligence,
the audience metastasizes;
as trustworthy as vasectomy,
some dumb dope Jesus of Nazareth
crossed with a Kalashnikov,
cuddly with the celluloid, counting down
three / three / two / one, singling
each throb out, and each beat’s ghost, dent,
and each sonar blip of childhood
stitched out into the belly of oblivion,
saturation of flap in rosy flag, uselessly
an invitation for Kimberly away
into bedroom / surgery / photo booth /
bedroom, penned in in the dreamfarm,
god locked up into gardener,
cutlery beat into ornament,
and a wet steak used as a tombstone
/ headboard / ringtone / agonist
to wherever serotonin wants to sink,
affluent enough to delve fire and breathe,
toasted enough to stink, she bows.
It’s one thing to be above it all
It’s another thing to be torn out of it
And stuck dangling to the skyhook
It’s one thing to be hiding your wounds
It’s one thing to be dying of your wounds
It’s something to only suffer, suffer, suffer, suffer
When you’re not crushing its throat
It’s easiest when it’s already dead
It’s called “Passive Loss”
It’s called “The Candle Inside the Throat”
It’s calling us back to the surgery
It’s a name, it’s poison, it’s a scalpel
It’s Kimmy locked in a sarcophagus
It’s a first taste of real magic
It’s an execution
It’s execution-style ornamentation
It’s cold, it’s so
Cold, he says,
Bleeding out all over your sun dress
It’s so personal it’s your throat getting crushed
It’s so precise it’s your throat getting crushed
It’s as stupid as physics, as ethical as a hammer
It’s a hammer swinging down on the pin
It’s writhing like a worm in the center of her brain
It’s another thing you hadn’t known to fear
It’s an esophagus trisected into song
/ swallow / surgical performance
It ends in a meat locker, dimly lit
By a fluorescent tube, twitching to each moan
It’s Kimmy’s ghost leaking from the coffin
It ends with ghosts pooling in the drain
No longer Kimberly, Kimberly comes.
The selfless eyes and the curve of their cusp.
In her disfigurement, Kimberly lows.
In her performance she unsubscribes.
In her performances curtains exhale
a weight of air as molten as gold,
as game as meat in her neck on my chest,
as in, concentric homes, colorful bells.
Behavior muddled with copper and jolt.
And in occlude of her iris, eclipse
of salt in water and saturation of felt.
The logic shedding its bulb to its spine.
The slow blossom of breath in the phone.
In her room, the slow blossom of breath.
out of aorta into rope (wire) throb
of opium swabs her veins of
video (clean) a trumpet’s swim
in tidal hemoglobin (ocean hiss
inhabiting even her heart) thirst
for a throat of honey (calling
out from under the film) muzzled
(the embers collude) in orgasm
(ceaseless) the world (eludes rot)
word (to song) to ashes (the body
has only one war) leaking iris
(a surgeon deprived of words) a
more pure reason (cleaning the
scalpel in my breathing) sleeping
(freezing) serving (I wait here)
chloroformed (for the return of
the wind) and even in a wonderful
place (still I’m weightless)