Dust On Our Tongues
“And as for the poets—the deviators follow them.”
You’re the god we’ll remember
when religion ends,
DC:
dust on our tongues, the spire of
us rising under
the wet wrecking-ball’s touch, our
svelte erect bodies
abut, construct the church in
which we fuck, blistered
with stimulation, sanctioned
touch stigmatized for
blasphemies we mouth in this
pursuit of lust built
from the ruins of some blue
temple hewn from come
erupted to envelop,
once encrusted much,
dusty mythological
love, damage the one
faith ev’ryone tolerates
in muted pastel
decibels, written in the
whispered shadows of
Caravaggio’s leaden
bones, I’m hard now, Sir,
remembering Eden’s blur,
snowy filaments
on fizzling cinders orate
day’s blemished end to
:LX:
vanishing warmth sent away
to make take place some
desecrated space paced for
seasonal changes,
to decay, to venerate,
to accommodate
waste, to away, as if to
say and grief is just
anger at god, not at loss,
but so awful just
because of the lost touch with
a lost father who
never was, how you always
make me come, like a
honeybee to some lying
hyacinth, peddling
nectar your pillowed patter
implores me to pour
all over your chest, that we
might call such nasty
stickiness a gift, a pearl
necklace, yes, if we
really wish to sell sex as
romance, remorseless
mother’s tongue in your mouth, how
language is a bitch,
so is the sun, masochist
always digging his
own grave, offering himself
every dusk to
decay in some ditch, wanting
like Jesus to do
it again, to rise up, to
vanish, celestial
body still set heavenly
enough to ravish,
no matter the g(h)as(t)li(es)t
inability
of us to count now just how
many urns fill with
eternities, the through-line
of all my blushing
seductions, the secret of
each meeting, of each
rusting obsession, buried
in the silence of
its own omission, is my
desire to always
go on wanting, contented
getting off getting
nothing, nothing but getting
forgotten trying.
