bawd to an ewe lamb

i. SINPATICO

i was too full of SIN for fetishes.
even the localization of desire to any specific within the generally conceptual was without the scope of my VICE. so i kept it (desire) whole and slowly writhing like a giant pink baby echidna parade balloon, knubbed and lightly haired and rubbed with unguents to keep it slightly glistening.

until you came along.

then there was this giant pink nascent echidna balloon versus the black-haired red-lipped parade balloon that in me represented you. if there had been mud enough and handlers' skills, these two enheliumate structures, lady, might have duked it out for my soul in a wrestling extravaganza.

but what i was really hoping for was a great swallowing, either by you of the echidna of my desire, or by the echidna of you that you might wear the face of it, a localized suspension (because in midair), an apex of its focusless name.

OH HELL OF MY SOUL, this treatise unbreach'd,
this tract unfurrowed,
this torch unburned,
this potato not yet mashed and check that ain't been cashed.


ii. FACTS

the echidna has an unusually large thrombosis, which is the part of the brain responsible for r.e.m. sleep, recycling, and waking dreams. it is the most evenly-distributed metonym in all austria but bears its eggs in a pouch and feeds them off milk patch-holes. when just hatched it looks like something that forcibly burrowed its way out of painter francis bacon's gray and slimy brain--athena, but without either zeus or the looks. it's ugly, pink, and damnably formless.

i remember seeing you before i knew you. it was the flop of your thick hair, the way you held your chin, your glasses, and your walk that were most remarkable to the uninitiated. the eyes, smile, and voice remained secreted into patches i was to know only later when i sat next to you kind of by accident and you ate a salad.

i don't think you know i write this stuff. is that why it's all online? do you hate me, five? does this count as history?


iii. SOFT WITH REFLECTION
niether the honey nor the

the pink desire wields little arm-nubs
against the cold and post-egg world.

like winter on wallace stevens' brain,
i am weighty, airless. there are various
places at which all things touch down,

SIN, for instance,
SIN,
SIN,
or SIN.


iv. IT'S COLD AND I'M STUPID


v. NOTHING IS RESOLVED BUT THIS:

lover, you...
lover, you...
in the couch the kittens mew.

did you and my desires touch?
not so much.
not so much.

i thought love would be a grander thing.
it's nothing but a deepening.

an opening of black and red
when you were gone, my placeholder.