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Too-Holy

Man with swollen, soft lips that
Curve like embracing limbs.
Hands Spanish and nails long and healthy looking
I look through gap in teeth and see the arch of the Sixteenth Chapel.

Wait by 100 year old phone for a text or call but to no avail

Hybrid is not pleased by confused blonde girl
Wants to be alone in small house, alone in bed with Bob Dylan

Blonde girl feels air scratch her with wobbly nails.
Eyes tree stumps waiting for caprice,
So blossoms can dangle, skip around so-sturdy a tree

His heart crackled like cheap candy
Cannot lubricate without defining himself
Cannot peel off dead lace, must have it flutter
Like feathers on an old lady’s
Hat

Fidelity, a canoe pattering on lustrous waves
Cresting forth to Dalai Lama

When dead: wine-red cloak in knot by squirming door
He grazes oozed bodice as muscle dissipates into water-mattress
For him to fondle, mercilessly

She, now sprinting through Heavens,
A spinning, sultry, sunset shadow
Jerking uncarpeted bodice
For passionless clouds

Pavement crusted in gassy delusions
Enshrined, forevermore




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