SUNDAY

The painting is up, the pull is forward.
The phone calls are distant and mostly
right handed. I’m tired. I want to go
back to when the song hit like glass.

A real shatter moment. I’m writing
on top of writing. I wonder if people
who talk about themselves for hours
realize that they’re talking about themselves

for hours. A trick of the light, a disappearance,
don’t worry, we’ll catch the bullet midair.

I hope to be a monster. For monstrosity.
What a whirl – seesaw living, star gaze
predicament. Not enough books to be better.
Floral chokeholds. Pinched smile and ink blot.

Many young pop stars end up rotted. This
is the deep sad, the sunk skunk, the caramel
poisoning the chocolate. I’m sick
of making sense. Soft scrub, hoax

toast, let us rub the rind until it’s raw.
Let us be a prayer wasteland, grotesque
sock puppet patriarchy. I’m all sounds now,
teeth gummed, hell is other people’s

tumblr posts, and misread Emily Dickinson
dashes. Shame, shame, rust bruise pen,

can you draw me accurately? I miss shock
waves, natural eyelash curler sticking little bristles

to gold speckle lids. Can it all hit at once,
can the body sweat out pain like eye drops.
Some untear overflow and mess and who
doesn’t know this honeysuckle sulk. I’m

tired of hormone culprits stealing blame,
convenience, convenience,
store of my secrets, store the black shelved iron
pop. Conscious, conscious, wherefore art thou

glitter glue and magazine cut out. Biology hit
like acid rain rebelling
against itself. I’m a corrupt, curved over the torso
like a sickle. Dear systematic oppression,

do your hands get wrinkled in the sun?
Punch gut punctuation and a silly string inside view.

Scoop them out slowly. When the autopsy is over,
scoop them out slowly. Autocorrect automobile,
I miss being able to talk to people. Not a soul
based in the deep dish could define, not a one.

There is a nothingness: purple blast burnt edge
and keys glued into the lock. Promise me this:
you’ll remember when I say something. Promise
me this: the sky collapses in the end. Promise

you’ll be here when the cows come home,
when the spanks outstretch, when the powder’s
out and the match’s lit, when the eyes have dried
to fertilizer. When the exoskeleton reaches

its final transitory state, the chromosomes
line up in the middle and rip themselves

like fingernails down walls or skin or fighting
back. Do you remember what I said?

Do you remember how the curve graphed itself
point by point—a rewatch, a stale lotion,
a crass old friend. I’d say get out but you’ve
already managed that. I’m excessively leave-

able. Accessible, doormat, ding dong, tea dance
for next time. Shove melodrama lozenge
down your throat, I’m a toxic, I’m
a fiend. Bad cat decomp, laboratory investors

sing a tune of least resistance: she’s an empty
fuck, chronic conic maybe one day ellipse,

language coming out
like thrown-up gasoline.