The Teleprompter Says to Exclaim.
Lip-sunk, meaning
a fabrication of sorts,
like this or that
sprinkle on the cake,
the singing wants to break
through your cagey
desire to be you
once removed. Once
the imprint is minted,
and, permanently
left weeping to itself,
the emotion lobbies
against its own gun
control laws, I'll see
you in the slammer
choking on Cheetos
which cost you your last real
shot at forgetting the real-
cheese taste.
How prenatally fatal,
elegantly almost-silken.
The way you looked
and the mirror gave
up, away, in. A homeward
drive to the ward.
Is that what a kiss is
talked up to be
when we are lonely,
chocolate-craving,
ghostly barters of
each other. Or is it the same
to smile when, reifying
a practically unreal urge
to be, say, ineffable,
you push your tongue
against your teeth
and wish, as if it were
your only vein,
to bleed the right color,
Canary Pink, or Robin's Egg
Blue, or some other
Crayola bird, for the O
xygen. A slight masochism
in your genes, a byproduct
of silverplattering and star-
light knowing only how to
form, rendering itself formless.
Like all great ideas this
one will stick to your
windshield, markably, remarkably.
The explosion is impressed
with itself, the way time
took it, dismounted
in reverse, engineered
cattle. Now just a blade
of grass, and one worth cutting
other expenses for,
while we go hungry
and come back for unfixed dog
days slobbering over pre-
marinated Pavlovian
bells and whistles: Surprise:
The steak is too well-done.
A juicy tidbit you might well
disqualify with your own
unctuous drippy-drop eyes.
RSS Feed