Song of a Reformed Headhunter

12. the foreskin of the sun a mottled black laved by bonus tubes of antiseptic cream the meatus passes an untreated stream of blood-flecked pus and semi-solid dreck             the bath drainer sprouts tiny clumps of hair between my fingers the material i rub and jack off to the smell of cells shooting into the wall a croix de guerre the cracks between the eyes are filled with grout the body lathered with the sweat of butter from neck to haunch from inner thighs to outer ablutions done whitewashed grave walks out

11. the sun again is a big orange pill stuck in the blue throat of the sky pretty colors kind of plasticky a promise to restore a man’s free will lowered into the subway by my hands have no desire to go anywhere the young impatient to surface to air the old too scared to make any plans we listen quietly to the rocking train not making a sound if we can help it the train is throwing a shrill hissy fit but we are quiet like a brown blood stain proud i’m controling the impulse to scream the adderall is on extended release metformin works hard zoloft makes peace the cost is really not so great per diem

10. infallible the sun toddles up close wrinkled dugs shining faint around the glans mouth loose as gray elastic underpants sulfurous breath beneath the musk of rose the morning buzzes with the secret vote el papa joins the latest news cycle he will not die, say Murdoch and the bible quote I didn’t know who had hacked him unquote old masters still play at being the bawd the hands of bach open the mouths of choirs binding with ropes of gossamer and coir milton inserts in us the awe of god

a climbing rose called Altissimo 9. . . . the morning sun, the climbing rose love in which i had placed all faith and hope is in my hands a fraying piece of rope affixed to nothing but the body’s throes horizontal as custom and the bed the months turn into years, the years history commaed by wretched anniversaries struggling to meet business overheads abbreviated clips on rockettube broke college boys, men on edge, english lads predictable and fake as tv ads still draw out from the drawer the length of lube no venus up high, only narcissus see in the rupture of a tight white ass self-reflection, the turbid, clammy face on things when they are not afraid of us

8. opening a crack of the eyeball to the sun i am divided from the objects lit even the violent corpse of this misfit that i now raise as if it weighs a ton i don’t know if it dies during the night i do know when I wake that it is dead the toaster oven revives the pita bread sliced by an oversized knife into bites the coffee grinder is now nearly unmanned next week it will dispense with human quirk woven from sweat that will not wear its work the cotton shirt eviscerates my hands

"Supermarket Seizure," from Melisaki 7. bereft the last sun nearly dies of fright i move the mouse the screen does not light up black coffee drizzles from the paper cup the store sells sexy underwear to tykes the hypermart stocks fifty kinds of cereals the aisles are barred by stuffed shopping carts fruit of every hue on the color chart filleted fish packed close on ice congeal the bully crotches beg to be unzipped forgot to get my favorite graham bread MacBook Pro rechargeable battery dead the arrows of the earth are iron-tipped

6. the sun lying back on the couch of clouds complains of ennui and insomnia the night is long but all too soon i hear the coffin close, the rolling up of shrouds i take my darkness out to walk the park most owners let their petty dooms run wild or train them to pick up a spotty child so carefully the skin won’t hear a mark mummy cries out, Stop, Def, stop where you are a little ruin has run across the road speed-demon cabs, reckless trucks, swaying loads hearing the loved voice, Def runs back to her