often times. in the city of green electricity. there is a pulse. an earthquake. a wave. that ballets and pivots on water blades. rolling stones and skipping bases. lamp posts wrapped. in petals of caramel ash. in the tunes of idle tales. door after door. wood after wood. and what goes behind. is a question for our children.
telling the child. behind those doors. behind the wood. the foundation of your lips. slipped into asinine existence. for sex and categorical sexuality. honeydew and molten wax. merged in sweat. in erotic violence. in a monochrome of desire. in a cardigan of love. so smooth. so soft. like cotton pearls and dandelions. afloat on clouds. clouds of ink. streaks of smoke. building pyramids. killing men. with ivory skin. you are man. you are greed. you are power of the thrones. you are the truce of dimes. and diamond coquetry. you are the opium of a non-admitting category of volatile experimentalism. women, they say. born as you may be. your womanhood is acquired. the window of exchange is narrow. there is the trans-identity. there is the volatile pivot. hurling sweat. and chewing rust. and behind closed doors. what power you wield. little child. what power. what is it about the maleness? what is it about femininity? Why the feminine needles. shaped like a telephone. shaped like a violin. or a muslin boat. little drummer girls. defeatist in their vibe. they careen behind doors. voluptuous philanderers. he asked. is man meant to be the idealist monogamist? on Darwin's toes? did the union of souls exist. before the coupling of questionable catechism? no, they said. i quietened. this was cancer. what kind of anomaly? so waxy.
behind those doors. men sharpen souls. woodcutters smother saliva on bottles of wine. and whine for hours. sometimes they joy. laugh and smirk. make chandeliers with milk. and in the photo shop. they dissolve a humility behind closed corridors. faculty clubs. faculty of an estranged dissonance. raise your child. and bite your clocks. behind closed doors. they sing songs of love.
telling the child. behind those doors. behind the wood. the foundation of your lips. slipped into asinine existence. for sex and categorical sexuality. honeydew and molten wax. merged in sweat. in erotic violence. in a monochrome of desire. in a cardigan of love. so smooth. so soft. like cotton pearls and dandelions. afloat on clouds. clouds of ink. streaks of smoke. building pyramids. killing men. with ivory skin. you are man. you are greed. you are power of the thrones. you are the truce of dimes. and diamond coquetry. you are the opium of a non-admitting category of volatile experimentalism. women, they say. born as you may be. your womanhood is acquired. the window of exchange is narrow. there is the trans-identity. there is the volatile pivot. hurling sweat. and chewing rust. and behind closed doors. what power you wield. little child. what power. what is it about the maleness? what is it about femininity? Why the feminine needles. shaped like a telephone. shaped like a violin. or a muslin boat. little drummer girls. defeatist in their vibe. they careen behind doors. voluptuous philanderers. he asked. is man meant to be the idealist monogamist? on Darwin's toes? did the union of souls exist. before the coupling of questionable catechism? no, they said. i quietened. this was cancer. what kind of anomaly? so waxy.
behind those doors. men sharpen souls. woodcutters smother saliva on bottles of wine. and whine for hours. sometimes they joy. laugh and smirk. make chandeliers with milk. and in the photo shop. they dissolve a humility behind closed corridors. faculty clubs. faculty of an estranged dissonance. raise your child. and bite your clocks. behind closed doors. they sing songs of love.
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