I slid down the green entrails
of your inner Lenny Bruce,
gone bad turned Diceman,
I slid down that slippery pole
of the round the way Johnny Rotten
that eventually unedurable affect,
that I nonetheless loved,
of your homeslice voice
into your bedroom,
The bed was all undone,
you were clearly with me,
I wondered simply how
you and I could split-screen
zig-zag, between you
and psychic distance
I mean amidst you and I
we could flutter like
butterflies;
Fecund we could
make fun of them,
or alternately
fake fun with them
for their wind, their
lack of symbols
clashing, and the lack
of cimbals crashing,
A wreck I see it in the future!
says every manic depressive actor
from there or from working class
suburb jungles, by then I'm all
alone again, and there's no getting
use out of you again.
Go back to being
a bumpersticker in my mind, the whole force
of you is mighty, so though
no farce available for it,
please don't leave for Emerald Cities,
the only cities which count for beauty,
with mountains in the distance, so aged
they trace infinity and then laugh at the sanctimony
in snow and with show girls sliding down your voice,
Like good witches in eye-pop silver,
sliding down icicles
into a frozen pond, and I skate backwards the moon walk,
don't leave without me first says the plain
-speak
I know now, in earnest to talk-talk love with you.