I can only see the moon in the crescents of your tear drops
as you wake up at 5 am with an open, dry mouth
like an open source of information, raped by quasi-scientists
and journalists alike; I am plagued
by the symmetry that lies in the reflections of our skin cells
just sequins that repeat the same sequence - cloning...

Your clothing is my clothing because
we are prisoner number whatever, taking a walk,
took a tour around the rose bush and woke up
scratched breasts and thighs look up to our eyelids, surprised.
Rise up
because I can't tell the difference between pond reflection
pondering reflections and pouncing directions
pounding an erection or pouting and directionless
or trying less pounds (both in weight and dollars
and wait), I find myself finding it hard to see much else
but orange powdered sludge like a fibrous dust
and I find myself finding you high waisted pants
just so I can find my soiled hands around your bust.

What is it? 60's? 50's?
Let's buckle up or button up or feel cut up
cut ourselves, slit wrists, kiss and lie in mounds of blankets
until we decide instead: a single poesy planted in a bed of futons
suits us much better - but these days I wear overalls, not suits
so I'm letting my thoughts dreadlock like my hair
but I'm not air locked in dread, or all I can see is red,
I haven't read in two years and so my brain is like stains from year zero.

I haven't travelled in time
I think,
I'm sure once there was a stage where my brain looked white -
or maybe pink, just a solid colour but
and slowly as I butt cigars and cigarettes and flat whites
Figaro piccolo highs from nothing but shameful reality
where my fingers have sex with paper cuts
and pens solicit themselves to my palms like a twelve year old Jodie Foster
I foster the curiosity, 'am I allowed to become a homeless pig
to find my paint and stretch my canvases?'
I stretch my jaw as it is 3:27 in my morning and I have been chewing
sativa resin;
hopefully my saliva resonates with some sort of communal snake tongue.

The devil only exists if you want him to
he's a gimp locked to the corner of a ceiling
he's a man dressed in secret service standard uniform and a sign
'the end is near' -
what if my life finishes, and then credits roll, then the screen turns black
and Vaudevillian curtains are drawn (maybe by Matisse)
over my Heaven-less, Hell-less poor existence?
Where are you now holy trinity? Door knocking disciples don't
ripple a coma or tickle dead persons in the crematorium
and so I finally qualm:

Queen of the Night, let
your starry eyed children gloss over me
because I am no walking lip gloss or accosting piece of toilet paper,
I am evergreen, I am sixteen pockets closer to an imaginable Heaven
I am a blue heathen with a crush on black humor
and I crushed my wings because I know cashed in concussions
caress my feet better than any level of careless dreaming;
I'm not pussy-whipped by Aphrodite
but I am whipped cream syphon pulling spirals around a forgotten man's woman
and maybe
if you were a dreamer, you'd call this graffiti -
pissing in the wind, a dog pissing on a Kindergarten so everyone knows
I own both the feather and the wretched hammer that un-nailed it.