Song Of Myself

I’m not even free from you in my dreams.
My heart only beats out of fear you’re near.
You are my lips; I fell in your mouth.
Gods of lettuce hide in humans,

butterheads burning under our hands,
sculpting jade into cabbage for luck,
roped-off, gated, god-gushing rocks,
settling rust in the bowl of the toilet.

Johann Sebastian Bach's eyes puff
like floury brownies, melt down his face
and into his mouth, skin sadly stretched
to a face sheet, spanning all outer space:

a sad trampoline bouncing want and delusion.
Galaxies pass through his pus-crying sockets.
Black holes form in his petrified lips.
Fat olives mumbled as God prayed to God.