you write of robins wrapped
in his tree trunk neck
warbling pitter patter tunes
of the sleep talk of Madam Moon.

the only music i hear is in clubs,
throbbing madly as bodies spasm
in all directions like satellites
trying to capture waves of a memory
of the melody god smeared
onto their then holy mouths
when they slipped out bawling
their spikes of change staking
through several hearts, across time.


you write of dandelions snagged
in the babbling brook hair of girls
with violent dreams.

the only nature i see are abhorrent
abomination---pockmarked blocks
puncturing through grey clay
and an orbit of metal carriages
moaning drunkenly in between,
carrying souls with battery bars
reduced to one.


you write of the tips of tongues
touching crushing sparkle kisses
and tears tearing trails down
frozen laughing faces and of
blissful contortions of orgasmic
dance.

the only thing i feel was dripping shame
as you dribbled out of me
your baritone chest heaving
against my beansprout back.
and this seed growing in me...
i wish i could write her out
an aeroponic baby
sleeping in your easel elbow
where she could be lulled to sleep
by your wingbeat heart
away from me.


but oak man, my love
choked and dying, i welcome you my love
your bark grinding 'tween these iron thighs
branches crushing  these graphite limbs
leaves closing these traffic eyes
frozen at red


just


switch the sun on, darling
when you get out of bed.