²d - Baetylus

[Side A, Scoubidou Suite]

"For the aeglarian rock, we've these offerings:"

A flower of life in latticed shiners.

I am Dusk.

Frost has made a licornucopia of

"The red wheelbarrow made with chemicals"

branded like a bar counter in blacklight.

Anything here wet & edged,

wearing the depression

bubbles

like Sixty peachpit meteors.

Their null-tulle of gravity,

entrails of Goodwill's stuffed animals

as plush cloud scarves,

ton-bump mulberry.

I mean to entreat a hand, a mouth,

the fairy candle D bears,

grit-pearled, brilliant like a .wav file of us

laughing secret like sniffing dogs,

not grass, to please.

Yet, not everyone makes harvest.

Or nicks pike of millet

spurning itself dewy, duly lit.

"My brat king tail

of mullet princess ringlets

snipped"

makes Spring.

I want y'all to remember that surplus,

unruly moted.

C's down glad, & like a moth

my prize-won minotaur-pierced orchids

warble coin frogly & cuddle the wold like

bites in a hung & hid tunic.

She's Miss Eternity’s Pleated Curtsy.

A lung wilts to its overgrowth, open,

her navel damns it all:

-  Sublimes involucrescented like Marine Serre,

-  Demurrage of The Blessure Graves & Other Stories,

-  A dark teardrop, darling lacuna to darn.

-  Broken glazed crullers & mitre gears.

Startender,

one obol for the tab:

our soft curse to share:

To be soldered by

hex screwdrivers

& votive colored cigarettes.

So,

here's to

the her I fall into.

Even in noetic wax,

unshorn sunspume,

embroidered stuc.

Each comet tear

her crushed ice:

I'll be your nightshade.

Foam me close with

all stars on a windshield.

Hold me there,

the bight of the coast. I'll show

my blood cabochone spread like jam

on lip's hem brioche as tarte.

Lick it.

It means, if only for a moment,

let's share confection: You,

a hare's primal seizes,

a wick that determines a

black box Daisy chain

from every crashed plane

& convection behind the blackout curtain

of step-stone or snare.

My, my column of plight. I,

The original Catherine wheel

As a compass:

your hair around my face

heals the wounded cheers.

Macrame cremation.

To brace for bracelets.

I look under every sheet,

every ghost, everybody,

at the end of the episode,

& yet, wax-let, I wish it was who?

Amen to aments.

Fairy foxglove, myosotis,

snow-in-summer, & rock cress

evolve behind the revolving bookcase.

I take a lantana umbel

lit by fallen starflint

to gloam through a catacomb

of months alone.

You can have them, from every species on every page, dessicate, paper-thinned beneath a Singer-brand iron maiden. We are both wearing flowers, you notice, but you’re skipping rope with my last fucking nerve.

We have more than a word problem. Here’s a better one, one we happened to make in the warp & weft, apres Topos, of our scoubidou:

If two kneeling omnibuses, the B43 & B38, leave the depot at 8:31, driven by women, both wearing Carharrt, barely touch each other in a bottle necked Dekalb Avenue at 9:23, is it gay?

Yes, it is.

I love you.

& I wish you were here.