Open mouths hoping for caverns
move to sigh tokens of triumph
gifted simply because we tried.
Indeed, the need to matter overcomes
all lying to combat our heat
after it’s been bleeding.
Out of us, out of mouths unfit
for their keeping, pet phrases call;
culling listeners down to graves
of grass—unmade beds of followers
trampled by weeping crowds.
Picture vases holding blades,
cheapening hurt with choruses;
wincing glass speaking its last
in screams to unseen masses
providential hands pronounce,
performing unwashed put-downs—
a shattering which resounds.
Arriving in anatomical cars, bones
crash like oars into the sitar
solo flooding our course;
strung like badges onto undeserving
bastards, profane pain slaughters
our sacred calves as we row on.
We coach our Selves to put off touch,
our desires dissecting rejection’s
commands we stall: we are the broadcast
nudes blasting fingers of waves
into the cunts of the night, so-called.
Off-air, these open mouths hoping
for providence crawl; out of cribs
ribbed with gold fillings, we file from west
of wedlock onto a path beyond
where fidelity’s parked—pleasure calls.
Falling into prominence, garages
of garrisoned attendants march up;
back to the studio they draw us—
with bayonets into a dark corner
of nobles sandwiched between
mayonnaise-skinned, crater-faced teens
and back-shift, wage-work savages, demanding
we strip our memories and burn our baggage.