Rearranging the Eclipse

Soft on the pedestal. Her fingers. An array of engorged penises. Useless save to thrust at the dark holes. Gathering nothing. Her tongue a red tampon with the wet string hanging down under the grunt of her piss. Plebeian. Save to illustrate the madness of touch.

Her menstruation ticking inside her panties. Termites hollowing out the dead wood. Small explosives disguised as sex.

She was wearing him. Long ladder of man boasting toward the sky. In itches of butane. Parables in flint. Sparking loudly, but rarely granting flame. The calm breeze from below her blouse threatening to put him out altogether.

The concrete she drew her lips from was drying fast. She hurried to tell him where the window still gawked. With fish on hooks and men undressed. Little dolls with their feet chewed off. Slouching toward absent Edens.

Feeding the stray dogs with the bones from her jaw. Nothing left to say. Words too deaf. To hear. The delicate choke of empty beds.

To weigh. All those bloated sheets. So many dead things to count. The geometry of people. Is that we don't fit together until all the angles are broken. The insects carving their tunnels through dense oblivions. Pussies and tits. A landscape of humanity built on the morality of lonely men. Lying gods. Keep us in wait. For barren utopias. The world we have created keeps us human.

It's like we're all communists. When we touch. And greedy capitalists when we fall in love.

Hungry greyhounds chasing the hare. In her silence. There's nothing quite as real as betrayal. When I was young enough I could recall. Each color that went with the skin. I knew by whom I wanted to be used.

Now it's all metaphor. And waiting for the world to catch up to us. Because everything is slower. And everyone is ugly.

When you've always been there.