Cosmetic Urology

                         vii. Seventh Inch

M     edia, martyrdom, and marginality through a
   trench of • warm honey, the dead who seek answers are • actually our unlived lives. Wordless, withering glares coming • out of the woodwork in wildfire season. Dusted • with embers, the oppressive intimacy of technology a • mouth closing to swallow all sound, only his • echo answered. Fire and salt mark, without walls, • in echoing wails the boundaries of where Sodom • once was, its city of forbidden flavours filling • •

                         vi. Sixth Inch

us ever since with a thirst our flesh • can never quench, a twitch our desires never • can still, unjust because what we want no • one else does. Fingers narrow to rim the • winking apertures of blind urns, ashen porn scatters • forth its blackened orchids of wept immediacies, wrinkled • miracle curls of cigarette burns this warmth turns • to hurt to inform, to submerge in subliminal • currents this itch of spark crackling up in • •

                         v. Fifth Inch

the gnostic momentum of my planet’s downfall. No • interest whatsoever in relationships, my only interest is • in sex and at present I’m not even • slightly horny, just pissed. A slit mind like • stained glass cut to fit blood’s lust for • lies lived through the silt split light gives • when splintered just right it spills luminescence ludicrous • and lewd as this verse my pen drips. • Carried through the culture as a buried voice • •

                         iv. Fourth Inch

longs for lungs, as an annoyed poet quips • with barbarian brutishness rejoinders intended to destroy confidence • in oneself my assuredness in my own diminishes, • this isn’t ritual. Sumatran Black as the bitterness • of cold coffee licked off dead lips, moonlit • acolytes unable to forgive, inarticulate initiates of my • bullet-proven bullshit oracle whole, wounds kisses from puckered • lips puncture with punches of pluck and grit. • Soft fury of velvet, aromatics of rot. Easier • •

                         iii. Third Inch

to show your ass than your feelings, to • die in the public eye is to drown • in the speed of light, always a camera • nearby to capture your fading from sight, and • it might happen tonight. Smoke coffee and drink • cigarettes. At once fascinating and infuriating, demanding and • resenting a stranger’s recognition, resenting fame’s contradictions to • enter my own trance peddling discontent, puddling through • cement, pleading dissonance, never once ever was innocent, • •

                         ii. Second Inch

persona non grata in every room, always the • whore at the convent door, unable to repent, • confessing, instead, then, in steadfast deadpan attrition. A • smouldering up of bone-bleached breath from our devastating • wreckage, the way eating out a novice priest • comes to make shame dissolve like a consecrated • host on the spoiled tongue, summoned by desire • to be undone, to evaporate the way faith • always does misplaced. Love grows over abuse like • •

                         i. First Inch

a cataract. Sometimes books read their readers through. • The way silenced desire forms its own voice • inside an ignored head, creates a vehicle for • hatred from neglect. Loss is a dying art. • The shattering climax that this impossible illusion cannot • be sustained, combustible, combusts, not in the way • we think, that what celluloid does is constrain • the depraved demon our desire raised, the names • it makes this fame feeds, this fame takes.