Venus speaks to the faithful

I hate the milly-melly humdrummers, I love the big circus tent gone low in shadow and clutched breath. Johnnyclock Bossman likes his pile of eggs. I go for something with a bit more bite and blood and tough gristle chewjoy. Trochaic bitch they call me everlasting, that call for sending drinks to the prob’ly-will-hate-you-eventually making prettywise by the bar—Jesus, does it matter what the body blames you for? If this wasn’t about sunshine why’d you bring out the weather? Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt murder when it’s lovely. Thou shalt reckon thy days as the dancers who feel more each stretch and flex come bit by bit unwilling. Everybody is a body and the body knows its business is in being awful nice. Everyone wants what they want and they want it twelve separate kinds of fucked up and gorgeous. At the end of the day all I’m looking for is a little piece of that worship you practice in the little hours and if you’re still doublethinking doublecrossing what your body knows put your lip against your top teeth and say my name.

Love sonnet with inchoative aspect

The flowers all going florescent like a sudden need
for more salt. The press of a finger round the rim
of a glass till the whole thing sings its quiet body.
Questions of genre presume a desire for belonging
that isn't already glowing loudly in the spine, hasn't
already run down perfect to where the watermelons
grow each a gold interior studded with afterimages
of oil slick memory and message. Ghost of a touch
cursed to remember its separate flesh. Interest
in the project of the Not-Now coming to an impatient
close. Room left perhaps for the present progressive,
for the moon growing fat on her repossessed light.
Bellyfull crescent reminding how glut is sometimes
silver, how even the sea reaches out to be held.