I stand in the sweet spot of the speakers,

equidistant to the slant, swaddled, crucified.

I am a pig at slaughter. The pain drips like

precum, like creosote rising to the sun.
I can feel the knives scrape, I can feel your
hand rhythmic on my chest then resting

as if ready for CPR. I cannot blame you

for my failed resuscitation. Sometimes

it’s about purity in spite of devotion.

.

butter

I have attached a lighter to my zipper,

when I piss the wheel sparks and ignites
a brief plastic flare of white pubes,
your necrotic fingers hold my balls, your nails
are complimentary and sticky. You hate avocados.
The stench is far enough away not to distract
from the corpses washed up in my mouth.

I compress poetry into urinal cakes, torn out pages

of stolen library books, my blood is neon pink
and sticky, it’s probably contagious. 
It is curatorial,  a vaporous beauty dissolving
into the animus of the sea.

This can of lighter fluid is ruined, it is

a breathing void laughing, the rust is transparent.
I can not burn anything beyond recognition.

.

Hammers blow and tumblers

give, you’re so fucking pretty
when the napalm flares blind
the sun. I am anointed.
Can I want you? Can I build
you a cathedral to house
my god, a memento mori?
Whatever death you offer I
would kneel before
the wolf at my throat.
If I could be who you wanted
would I be the perfect gun?
Every desire a prayer, every
atrocity anatomically correct.
Feed me your fingertips before
they are blue, before they are lost.
I know what I am capable of
and I know what burns, but I want
overlap in the replica and realness
of what your voice means.

.

I keep the gun warm
with the iron of my skin.
I sit here and draw
swords with my blood.
I am patient in this debt
and as beautiful as
a beheaded saint. 
It is August again,
my collar is wet where
it hangs on my neck.
I am ready for the cup.
I am ready for the darkness to spill.
I am ready for the jewel
of your fingers to trace the
outline of what I have done.
There is gold in the green waiting.
There is gold in my eyes that
will not ruin with remembrance.
I will chase around the edges
of things that should’ve been
with the fumbled ash of a cigarette 
I always hope the dark will take more time.





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