RUNNING MEAT & GALAXIES OF SEED
Lost track, the nations traversed
blurred to a lagooned island where
not skin but razor wire caressed
into four figures of the Xristo
a Da Vinci anatomy rendered Guantanamo
BEWARE: DO NOT APPROACH THE WORK
or fail to eat those
gaps in the unutterable
so he set the Thames on fire,
filled his emptiness with burning water,
lungs by Turner by way of Pollock,
city by Richard Serra.
T turns and says, You see, I was raised by wolves.
V nods, Civil servants here.
Genius rodents in livery.
By ‘continuity’ I imply a certain elasticity,
she said, our attention probes pliability,
a short puncturing of parameters
through visual massage. Her fingers worked
the space before us, a hysteric priest
with the body of heist.
T insists, I was raised by wolves.
The conversation autopsy reveals
that all was prologue, spaz-zap nickel & lime
spun out fine as vanishing rain
prudence worms souvlaki’d with spent Bics
knuckle peelings in jars
arranged by crones in leotards
AND THE VEGETABLE WORLD SEEPED THROUGH
Wolves, I tell you, and they were all
deeply into Marc Chagall
and the old joke about Zionist tourniquets.
Skin of drum, trickle of insect escape from the ear,
each bug a false memory, a betterment, a lie lozenge
acrobated by tongue to facilitate the rewrite.
Opposing forces pushing into the shape of face,
yours or the nomenklatura lining up for
sprinkles of smoked sturgeon on
a hard rye dissident,
a smudge of mustard
and the envy of neighbors
stretching till the cows get lost.
There are lists and this is one.
Not a ‘who gets what’ but a
‘what is done to whom’ a
‘not why but when’ a
‘in case of emergency break first’
the heads of the undecided.
But I was raised by wolves.
Eleven heads turn to ask, And?
They licked my bum till it was clean.