Pornographer’s weekend

It’s Sunday the year of our Lord
and smoke runs across the East river
outside, dissipating. 

Ghosts of children hopscotch
through time towards grownuphood.
Five dark trees stand framed in glass.

I’m waiting with my gentle mouth
breathing not thinking
wondering if my tongue’s got a memory
of the word’s it’s been forced to say
the skin it’s kissed.

People have begun being nervous around me
but my toes, those little mice
with their single pork hairs
carry on regardless;
growing nails and dreaming of calcium.
My knees, not forgotten
click and dream of carbon cartilage.

I’m laughing, cut off from syntax
counting my little scratches
and thinking of red lipstick
of pornography and the stories there are
of what would I be doing if I wasn’t here naked?

I’ve a list of things to do;
typing and eating and being Charlie Mingus.
A motorcycle accelerates outside
and I’m thinking of lipstick again, any color.
An airplane cuts through the sky
a silver pencil going up without noise

I’m wearing an empty mouth now
wearing clean teeth and trailing the antiseptic
of three color paste; it’d be good to eat more than this.

I’m hungry and remembering the Arctic expeditions
where men lost on polar caps ate candles
and drank each others sperm for protein.

How long would it last?


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