Salt and feather, flavours fall upon the ground,
     wander without mercy into wind they shout
     through, as their voices bound across wide rivers
     of time and over land onto beds no one
     admits writhing in when confronted by what

science binds leather and lust, desire that holds
     throats until love coughs up a shower of its
     gold, what treasure weekend legends mistake for
     myth, not knowing it exists, that there’s more to
     life than this, that pleasure has in its endless

arsenal another level entirely,
     god’s breath rippling water with invisible
     lips kissing off anybody else who tries
     to touch what’s his, that limitless, that unhinged
     infinite—heaven’s own door swinging to his

whims, his moods, what god considers worth this kind
     of attention, its dictation of this filth
     resembling literature what makes of one
     man’s craving something someone else will find tastes
     tasteless and immature, something special and

supernatural, unseen hands making of
     someone else’s waste pleasure, of trash treasure,
     divinely inspired if it passes the test,
     you’re not the best or master of this unless
     you make it look effortless, tempestuous

torment heavily marketed in a scheme
     so relentless in its targeting of crowds
     that everyone will relate to it, kill
     their architect, and build what pyramids fit
     into horizons between concrete jungles

and high water, sand and steel, bullets peal through
     earth and air, whistling of how none of this is
     real, just a breath play where windbags say what you
     don’t want to hear but feel, a monologue in
     an audition for the roll of his boulder,

as if you were Sisyphus or Atlas and
     the world your burden, no backstage passes for
     this show, not when you whirlwind in and out of
     arms lovers throw around, racing to embrace
     soldiers of clay your war’s wounds fail to make stay.