Make it quaint like crack pipes, blow for cheap grace,
—resin residue, —dew in the eyes, —pink
eye, —this pleasure dripping over your face
in gobs. I drink and I drink glob I drink.
This high will do. Vodka then gin, thus we
begin. Do not make it ugly. Drivel
does not impress. Make it blade, a belly
cutting cute. Make it the only odd skull.
The last thing they’ll ever find of. You’re blue
by thy nature. Blue by thy blow. I can’t
care where you went to school, fool. What awards
you got and sold. Which old hippie you blew.
Scare me new. Blow my lid. Make me recant
poetry. I want not chaff knives but swords.
Season’s fire enters and I burn. Always
flame; this does not get easier. Aunty,
where is a spring of hope when I’m ablaze?
Where is hope when the one I love leaves me?
All our old men talk of love like they talk
of all things; narrowly. Hell’s nothingness
is far better than a broken heart. Cock
and cunt. Ass and mouth. I am a chalice
boy; born in a pentagram. Take this smudge
stick, Aunt, take this bone bolline. We shall cut
it out. This fire. This heart. This pain. Carnage
in bed. Now cut the strings to this puppet.
Puppets burn. The one I loved left, I bloomed
into fervor, wanting to be consumed.
What can I say? Gray does not breathe and blue
is too smug, green a cheat. Then there’s yellow.
I can live with yellow, whose one virtue
is a warm, gentle buzzing, all mellow
and soft, in my ears whenever we kiss.
One time I got to third base with purple,
that’s not saying much, I know. The princess
of the spectrum, teal, calls me a wastrel-
-nogoodnik-bum. All that is luminous
delights me. All that is so bright it burns
my eyes, pleases. There is a queer blindness
though, when it comes to night hues and nocturnes,
blindness the way the soul is blind at peace
and all my needs to be loved by things cease.