daven sharma

holy refuse

snake boy

he is my fool, and
ingenuity—organized horizontally—
really has become
easier than ever:

it burns initials,
signatures over
quiet and serene
frontal lobes,
sinks down on its haunches,
avoids the cctv, very low;

the whole scene looks like
a sort of acetylene torch
wildstyle masterpiece,
slanging dick pics
and wolf tickets
to collective drones, the second half
of my twenty first century
tapestry, cool-lipped, frayed
and not frayed, flayed
and not flayed,
totality of a de-authored quotation—

(my fathers have hanged me
from a rubber hose several kilometers
in the sky; and i always look for the lights,
the needles we left for us
underneath the couch cushions,
for us to sit on, you and me)

i am standing in a pit in the middle of my bedroom,
not unlike the bedroom you are standing in now.
the glacial sneers in my face designed to
s s s smooth out the variations
of my rage, my fragmentations,
of the r r r rhythms in my delirium.

he tells me he will suck on my breast
and feed me sugar and gasoline:

the air is a cover,
the desert never pays
its respects—we are on ambivalent terms, ambivalent time,

but it howls for lucifer, he who discovered, expressed
the lonely pit-music droned under floorboards,
in the midnight's guts, a hollow orchestra eclipses
the fabric of relationships,
especially when woven between loved ones,
like teardrops on a snow dune,
a crescendo in a steamy bathroom—a v v variation in
identical speech acts—

and the human individual stretches itself across the ground,
as low as possible, cuddles down
into the trenches for all of us to bear:
the ingenuity of leathered skin, resistant to cuts,
tapestried sacrilegious, a burning world