Picture this,
the real problem is the execution…
when you undergo womb-to-womb therapy,
you are the subsonic consumption,
the appalling stainless heart,
the steel shrine to the Age of Reason.

Palsy summons the merits of a raised-eyebrow world.
She recommends the problem avoided.
Success, you know, is a gift of blind luck,
everything remote in proportion now,
every Boy Scout rubbing his cock
with the same fiery stick,
every enemy bag for shipment
makes me run to you
when everything else collapses around you.
Agony shorthand, I’ll hold on,
my sexy black photo,
sun in my eyes, and your head in my lap.

Children dressed for bed
know that hand continuity is a virtue
of absolute revision,
and that face/name recognition
is the desire,
the mirror machine,
my incentive to animal finish,
the energy union.

copyright,  © 1989, 2007 Chris Desjardins pka Chris D.

composed circa 1976-77; originally published in DOUBLE SNAKE BOURBON  

visit us on MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/newtexture