Finally, the fractal iteration of kings.
The legless herds lie still in the fields
and eventually the fences crumble
and the wilderness returns.
Like cinnamon coaxed back out of the tongue,
this book is a formalist approach for a kiss.
Or vice versa.
Like a kiss
is oblivious, they don’t know their homestead is meat;
is meat in an age of eternal iteration.
Finally I have met you
in this video of cyborgs making out, making out
with androids in the comments below.
But it’s really fear you want to talk about
and cannot find the words
so you jeer at yourself
you call yourself a coward
you wake at 2 a.m. thinking failure,
fool, unable to sleep, unable to sleep
buzzing away on your mattress with two pillows
and a quilt, they call them comforters,
which implies that comfort can be bought
and paid for, to help with the fear, the failure
your two walnut chests of drawers snicker, the bookshelves mourn
the art on the walls pities you, the man himself beside you
asleep smelling like mushrooms and moss is a comfort
but never enough, never, the ceiling fixture lightless
velvet drapes hiding the window
traffic noise like a vicious animal
on the loose somewhere out there—
you brag to friends you won’t mind death only dying
what a liar you are—
all the other fears, of rejection, of physical pain,
of losing your mind, of losing your eyes,
they are all part of this!
Pawprints of this! Hair snarls in your comb
this glowing clock the single light in the room