Glass blizzards without memory, only food of flesh was the dank urine of the city, crab parasites ate the flesh, thru jungles of breath when we copulate with white bones faces, place of nettles and scorpions for the soft host mucus, intestines sprouting weed room in the cool morning walls, the women in our genitals and bowels, fought over their shit, rubbing our diseased flesh-meat a mucus string: clawing thru shit place of tapeworms in some disk mouth, larval bodies feeling the penalty, the years, the long, the many, such shoots growing.
Sitting naked at the bottom of a well, the cool mud of evening touched our rectums. We shared a piece of armadillo gristle, eating it out of each other's mouths, above us a dry husk of insect bodies along the stone well wall and thistles over the well mouth against green evening sky. licking the gristle from his laughing teeth and gums I said: 'I am Allah. I made you.' A blue mist filled the well and shut off our word-breath. My hands sank into his body. We fell asleep in other flesh.
Smells on our stomach and hands. Woke in noon sun, thistle shades cutting our soft night flesh.
Evening touched our rectums. mud shells and frogs croaking, licking the gristle asleep with other flesh, the cool mud of breath, and our bodies we shared. branches in the wind, his knees, other mouths, against the green evening sky. 'We laughing teeth and gums,' I said. Hands woke in the noon sun soft night flesh, smell on our stomach, thistle shades cutting, penny arcade peep show—
long process in different forms— dead fingers talk in braille.
Think Police keep all Board Room Reports—and we are not allowed to proffer the Disaster Accounts—Wind hand caught in the door—Explosive Bio-Advance Men out of space to employ Electrician in gasoline crack of history—Last of the gallant heroes—'I'm you on tracks, Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin'—Couldn't reach flesh in his switch— and zero time to the sick tracks—A long time between suns I held the stale overcoat—sliding between light and shadow—muttering in the dogs of unfamiliar score—cross the wounded galaxies we intersect, poison of dead sun in your brain slowly fading —Migrants of ape in gasoline crack of history, explosive bio-advance out of space to neon —'I'm you, Wind Hand caught in the door'—Coulnd't reach flesh—In sun I held the stale overcoat, Dead Hand stretching the throat —Last to proffer the disaster account on tracks. 'See Mr.
Bradly Mr.—'
And being blind may not refuse to hear: 'Mr. Bradly Mr. Martin, disaster to my blood whom I created'— (The shallow water came in with the tide and the Swedish River of Gothenburg.)
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