If You Should Have Come Over
The bonfire counts on its soiled fingers. You are taken with the smallest talents,
aren’t you, even your lover’s talent for discord as she rolls out of bed sucking a black hibiscus
or screaming because you have eyes and a penis. You sure missed the fun bus.
Licentious sons of licentious fathers nevertheless grew up eating popsicles.
I could’ve hugged you, sugar-shirt, given you a lucid round lollipop
For a mind littoral to the sunstream–you are the sonlike neighbor of all this goddamn beauty
And I am your Annunciation; at least, I’m your favorite babysitter.
Let me this wisdom impart. Flagellants never win. Enjoy your chocolate bar
before our filibustering seems even a bit necessary. I’ll pop in the first videotape of the day,
and let us marvel together how from that black box of tinsel
comes (like hypostasis; like what the hot jet made you think of that time)
that sweet and brainless color-smoothie, that fat, sleepwalking peach.