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Not this, the dictionary says ;
pleas are a waste of time, motions to deny,
garbled message on the answering machine.
How inventive they all seemed, out of proportion
with the ink mess that your vocals
have become.
Before me it was live and let live ;
swallow the whole animal, quite content with
the hereafter that fogs up
the rear view mirror. These are gifts, your perfume,
your tongue, your flame, your mystique,
perhaps never invented, never received.
This is the farthest point
in the concentric rib to the sun. They will have their way,
these rain-drenched men in the dying weeds
because you seem to like it, not because
you are serious about bivalves or the liquor
licence on your shirt.
Why revolve about the past ?
One injury is sufficient for the necklace.
Call me what you will.
I will never deny it.
This says I am gone for pop holding your body.
I have a delivery to make, must pick up my shirts,
leave a note for the milkman.
Who knows what the voice says. It was a pronouncement
an advertisement for frames and French cigarettes.
The bombs love you, but silence keeps
you away from the tribal code, the sentence
borne in your blood like a worm of dreams.
Give me your answer if it takes another thousand years,
after all I am for sale and the system needs
wedding machines and soda jerks like me.
But tell me I am lying. The dead bolts are through
for the season, the body of whiplashes is
an ornament for slaves. Only this lives, in a secret
room, like a shellfish or a saucer of milk
for the cat. It was empty, the pocket you took me for.
Empty of combs, leather belts, hatpins,
joints like this one on a lonely stretch of highway.
Let us leave it at that. The lost man, like
little things, keeps us warm after all.
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