Mother soft joy balls at a midday wake:
Pleasing pleasing prisms does not do to you
. what you do to me.
Neither do sandwiches make messes when
. your mouth is closed.
You are neither left nor right;
. how vague can we get?
You are neither food nor are you hunger;
. is that better?
You are clearer than prisms could
. or should ever be.
A refractory image of being, not being,
. of eating, of not eating.
Of getting so close to the spot
. only butterflies could not be.
Inside the box, not.
Without the box, within.
You are you are you are.
I am in you of you me are in side under of
. to with me for us we not yes are.
Then the next thing is, is not, is of, your allegiance to being,
. to wearing, to not trifling, but chortling instead.
Giving me bliss does not deposit your nugget
. of self, at least not
without automatic departure, at least not
. withdrawal from this onslaughts of idea.
Of flowing flowering rivers
. of chunks of heart–
Not of sweet chakra juice, but of
. poignant gusts of you and of me. Of we!
poem IV. in The Chelsea Chronicles
I sit at coiled desks of copper,
with a mind more vivid than a walk to the window
could possibly enhance.
I’m observing you, surrounded by our fetishes.
The scherzoid of bells and whistles
suppresses my uterus.
Easy, like the fishes.
We’re trapeze artists,
simulating monkey bars-
only with love and pears soaked in cinnamon.
Emotions that look like hairy stars
run radiant spears straight at my forehead,
and puncture through the third eye
and out the cuffs,
dousing the room with undrinkable brilliance.
A room for rent here.
No longer inhabitable by me, but for you, a crane-
uphoists your knickers into an interminable fit.
An alloy of frankincense and catatonic blurbs
keeps frying your batter around my legs
and nibbling on my knees, and on my ankles-
’til they’re full of hounds traipsing tails back to pounds.
Flamingos and pomegranates wade in the basin,
fluffing their ears up to hear the humans
braying in the other room,
exercising their age difference,
cloying at mismatched likelihoods that common absurdities,
Gemini births and penchants for sex
might iron them together.
Cocker spaniels and harpsichords
crash their feathers together
into an uproarious tune,
better known as “the alabaster twist.”
Who keeps sticking meat into Grandma’s chocolates?
Bayonets continue their slumber ’til April
and parchments re-align the harvest
for lascivious, the luscious great grain.
Drumbeat of left wing, gracious paradise
memorizes the Chelsea.
poem V. in The Chelsea Chronicles
slipping down from ecstatic
into the calm understatement of bliss.
rides its own horse-
the threat of happiness.
Sinister treads the heartbeat,
regular and full-fledged.
Then your porcupine smile
replaces her with heart,
reduces ego to mud;
and life filters through blood.
The little and mister devilish
masters conciliation of the spiciest recanters,
monkey core with ticklish.
You’re better off
where honeysuckles proliferates
new visions of her.
You’ll need remembrance on the galloping trail,
to cradle your body
with draconian bliss.
Cool your blocks before stepping in,
so her feathers won’t hurt you.
She’ll dot your eyes
and you’ll cross her teasing contagion
with cramped ridicule and haughty marauding.
And finally, wherewithal will ensue.
Screeching Beatniks tumble from the sky
as tornadoed follicles shoot upward,
strangling pouty goose flyers.
No remorse please . . .
the wings are only to be snapped
off for swanky face fans, in any case.
Those wings once snipped and then dipped,
dipped in the Orient, purely were,
purely they were sprouted and fated to be
(to this diabolical and fancy-free embellishment),
the establishment, really, of bourgeois love.