NOTHING, MENISCUS, VIRGINity grown back into, traVERSE
what hope REFERS TO NOTHING BUT THE CUPidity
SO SLOWLY knocked, with the candle, UPSIDE DOWN: this one A TROOP
OF SIRENS ON THE CEILING could not awaken DROWNS in blood liquor.
MY DIVERS means of alienating FRIENDS, suppose WE NAVIGATE
to the root WITH ME/my blood ALREADY ON THE POOP-sample at thirty-four.
i DECK YOU with surplus fat TO CONSTITUTE THE PROWess i don’t confess.
THAT CUTS THE crap to fit its cloth, WAVE-CRESTed, LIGHTNING-LITeral.
I’M BUTTONHOLED BY strategic DRUNKENNESS
THAT DOESN’T EVEN hurt, FEAR only THE SWELLing breasts
i bring TO BEAR UPon art, should RIGHTly acclaim THIS BENISON:
SOLITUDE kills real people, A REEFer is just for now, A STAR
turns on TO ANY TRICK THAT VALIDATES self, my image, cast down on
yOUR CANVAS, my motive, SEAMLESSLY OPAQUE.
After Stéphane Mallarmé, Salut. First published in QUID magazine, 2004. Reprinted in Between Cup and Lip.
