I. fuck Sean Combs

headlice scratching
is garbage gothic like
urban mosquitoes

softballing curses
fuck Neil Gaiman too
on behalf of decent goths

other things said: sister, i know
you know a tall stupor too
like gutted up measured

rage, i’ll pour you tea
and tell you it’s whisky, if
you need empty or harder

i’ll give you my mask
i won’t even look
or obviously touch

a much drowned witness
when sunken city found
on too traceless tracys

rage, this harp is yours
sofa, word of an angel
bed, wish by a sigil

out winging like Ajax
the greater, vintage & archive
party discourses natal

twelve salt dissing courses
won’t tire her horses
bit ironies of Christmas

dirt snow glitter chain
gutter drain service entry
and no such thing as no

red-bottom chariot and pony-
tail hair, projectile vomit
acid tongue at the crossroads

an orphan army of kunai
invective & lashing 4 trash
Erinues down the river

//

II. if not, xmas

missing body
if a hinge

if a fold
in the cold

could hold
if not, xmas

//

III. pink parasol

is she meditating subtly for or
against me, this extraordinary tree
is her shady cooler or desiring me on
her radiant day of rest

if all the mended earth could be a bed
made lavender to fit her silent shadow
rough linen-covered pillow for a dream—
or both my heads grove bother

as she was oiling glass to sleep last night
trapped in the loudest windows of my head
her muscles pacing trafficky and sore
rewinder daily but more

and Jeki caught a mouse, that pitter-patter
crossed exposure with a vengeance, like
the summer used to blind and burn me, so
i veil, i veil, i veil

increasing constant collection of hats
my polarized knockoffs make me famous
pink parasol for pointillism in the park
to cover ankles, hands

and when i see her at the museum
like pastel whiteness for nobody happening
together all alone, closer with drawing
a disappearing lady

//