Not Operating

The ivory limbs twitch
with the threat of neurotics
on that carcass of rotting sticks
that one might venture to call a bed.

True, you are a royal mess.
Not operating, you are glued
to that stubborn mattress
at your best.

Don’t worry Lu.
I’ll undo whatever he’s done to you.
Infinite knives knifing near that spine for a time.
I wish I knew how to make that pain, mine.

Blood garnishes your Fridays,
makes a mockery of your free days.
It’s only natural to feel the way you do.
I wish that I could have the power to comfort you.
Don’t worry Lu.
I’ll undo whatever he’s said to you.

Tissue Beauties

Tissue beauties, tall and obsidian,
sliding down a palatial moraine.
A rush towards the bottom:
tissue covering up
that heavy-duty morass again.
They cry, a siren’s screed.
A tanker picks up their oil and speed.

The singer sorts, divides the we:
into the diamond and the dross,
while approaching cigarette cost
in silver cases,
smokes through the sticks: his mother’s milk,
minutes: his eternal loss.