dust song

tonight, in the banquet of moons, you consume the parable of chicory and bow-ties. syncopated, and polished, this is a half-cremation, a repression of the feline, of the narrative, of a confidence. to be attacked, mono-syllabic. to be harassed and repressed in a misogyny of verbs, of thoughts of ideas of longings and dreams. of a future, woven and interwoven, scootered hope, crystalline and breakable, this ductility of a futile conversation, this unknown cosmos of beads and pantaloons, i want to scream, sometimes. and love, sometimes. and bleed into a parapet of mediation and checkerboards and hold a doll house, a parafilm, paraffin ribbon. for you to grow up into a willing maturity, is the root of my contention, my hesitation and my lie. to hide in smiles, to bestow a twinkle, a grimace of satisfaction, like a celery scorch, crunch in humiliation of an alter-ego. to rise in an emotional confusion, a psycho-sexual dialogue, a racist diaspora hemmed with negativity and irritation, to unfurl a cat-blossom, burnt and piqued, smiling and sweating, an oriole, an oracle, the orbicular infectious, contagion raging and racing, and swelling in the trickery of peplum, in lace bangles and conifers, in hearts of pale and candle swings, in the touch of a longing fulcrum, modular and hollow.

at the benefit of camphor and a tincture of iodine, simultaneous specula soul searching the vacancy of sand lamps and blood sheets, in my abstraction, in my hallucination, i want to be a silicon dust, polished and shone, stomped and sung, danced and worn, abused, misused, burnt and flamed, gleam in rust, skeletal and green, waxed and wrung, hit and frilled, in swings of tides and cognitive fumes, released in air, afloat abreast, in the agony of a God.  

marilyn M. i wish you, the anti-traditionalist, my real-itarian cement, another birth.