New Type of Grace
on his back
makes a twangy sound
working at the selfish kinks
of this erectile chop shop
the image is varnished
but has a vague repose
collapsing into
Vivian’s howling void
now be here
or was it be here now?
vanishing into vapid sound
I slept through my golden year
branding myself
as a lost twin
but something stirs
inside this second gear
ringing in spring
with master works
that S.O.B.’s got some nerve
but this one’s looking for a fight
to fill in the pacifism
with a different shade of light
neon when you sing them
with their phallic noses
I can’t be expected to explain this
when my head’s full of noise
just leave me lying here
on my shimmering floor
the blue-gray day will penetrate
relinquishing all its joy
the false kind that separates
from myself and my boy
leaking antiseptic thought
from the criminal in my bed
and I’m asking him to spread
spread for me