The Carceral

It is a zero complex of numinous repetition

massing where

the lawful face of the girlfriend

dissolves beyond pixels, our nipples

hard for an angular

cheekbone we will never

touch or kiss in an obligatory steamy kitchen

with fresh vegetables.

Arbitrary zero-anus squared moon-house

of another Pluto derivative

of the burning parallax disc, sun or

hay barn.

I had fallen in love

with the pink stamp

many times before the still life

with pears turned to a rotting

battlefield in Algeria. Her corpse

stood and adjusted a yellow apron,

wiggled once

while substituting, Liam,

who cares . . . I’m not, who’s next?

Who’s x, y, or z.

Greta Garbo was a Zombie—not an

original solemn thought

but consider the moment!

The Latin lesson, all

lessons in dead languages

are beginning, a past-time

and now our language is among them.

Please repeat after me—

Marcel Glau, you can kiss my fat ass.

You can try! Anyhow.

Garbo thought she was

indifferent in bed, not unlike

shellac drying on a military mustache.

This is another conflict.

I’m sorry that you are just some

stupid colonist

journeying

to the lithium work camps on Mars.

The strength to our desperate prayers

is rooted in a flawed existence

we’ve attributed to our Creators . . . ?

All the kings of Scotland lining up

to fall into the dark

with Greta Garbo

who we must insist is indifferent to men

in lost mining camps

where the air purifiers

are being hand cranked by red-haired chimps

who whisper to one another:

garbo is a cold fish, we think, cargo

ellipsis. Dead from the lips down

like, flagrantly, like

our masters

in the Central Intelligence Agency.

Mundo. Coma. Olundo and out.