With You

I planted myself in the rush of your eyelids,
called into distances off the sling of knowing.

I saw lumps of fascia leap from your flesh,
doused and hid you with something like spit.

I saw you run through a jagged maze of fructose,
tried believing lies so I could keep you at a distance.

We never knew the earth’s core’s boiling with magma,
not when we laid on the concrete and slept.

My right arm has only brought suffering. Break it.
My left arm has only brought suffering too.

My dick is a bed of bioluminescent algae.
Product titles grope us twisting on our sick beds.

God chucks presents, ribbon-tied dawns
onto leagues of slime-housing, shocked into light.

I wanted to show you these streams of hazy vehicles,
hilly roads tumbling in white morning cups.

You are the soap-room I carved out and sit in,
triumphant and squeaky in bubbled-out holes.

Spaceships, swoop to this puddly expanse, vaporize
these rotting slabs of meat on roads to heaven.