it makes me want to throw dignity to the wind
and fuck the head of john the baptist in vacant retribution
THESE HANDS CAN’T RECALL WHAT IT FELT LIKE TO CRADLE A KITTEN
my head cannot recall the once-succulent wholeness of my soul
where is the minute hand on the face of a cut watermelon?
what are these ants feasting on the twisting corpse of salvador?
WHAT ARE THESE IMPRUDENT PATTERNS OF NON-SPEECH?
julius, oh julius, wherefore art thou julienned?
pan has sat through every play in the world
and he called this one a disgrace
but soft! will pan ever become my eromenos?
to whom have i fed pelops and brought this into being?
can all the earl of nottingham’s men put this together again?
perhaps this round of roman roulette will grant you a name
i feel placated, I have wrung my phalanges dry
i am theseus lost in the labyrinth of translation
i know where you are but I am comfortable in my disbelief