We The Urbane

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Whether I’m under the frost, or blooming at the end of the garden where time slept, the hour is horribly gaudy. My earth bleeds copious amounts to you. I am the warm blush of Sincerity’s medicine, lips bruised like soft fruit under truth. Am I here at the table of someone? Some thing? Feed me, the buffet platter served in your head remains in the language of the paradox you offer. The past is a flicker of candle flame casting shadow puppets in the cave party of our brain.

“No. Tomorrow is infinitely more useful than yesterday, but sour as unsweetened lemonade,” we reply directly to the warm hand from above as it asks “Shall we dance?” “We don’t need no fucking invitation.” Let’s sully your blank page. Teach its tombstone how to speak coyly of fig leaves. Reroute traffic on earth’s flat, remote circle. Make every plane, car, truck and pedestrian take your panoramic detour. I am Ay – every willing yes in the signal of your distress, my stoplight is always green. I am the pure hunger of awakening. The swallowing sands of time.

Let’s broadcast a few re-runs. The sponsors will be pleased. I can never get enough of you. My nematode worms carry a transgene for your neon Lizard King fluorescent proteins. Setting my genomes to go, unraveling my helices, rewriting my code with hieroglyphs, old vaudeville jokes, and Myrithis’ five star petaled rose spun thorns.

With the ace of my doom I will subsume you… Let me feel your mouth on mine. I want the rush of you, I want to kick the tender roots of your head. Bust every bottle in your soul. Then be made your own to command until there are no wrists or ankles to handcuff… I will fuck you til there’s nothing left of us – not even dust or memories.

The submission is what blows this fire escape one ticking time bomb at a time. We dive out the 14th floor window and into the bay; lapping up the waves with cat tongues, we taste the cum in Yemaya’s deep sailor’s throat, letting that salt soak into our bones, until we float belly up – dead or in love (is there any difference?).

We were never simple, we never yelled, “Cut!” – not even when the boom dipped into view, or the time I tried to use up all Noah’s floodwater to wash away that damned Lady Macbeth spot – when you splattered my guts in the storming of Normandy Beach, but I could only lay there, riddled in your bullets, happy to be a fountain for your bloodlust to splash in.

Every good start has a box-office middle but the ending is a too much overlooked art. So when in doubt, use your hubris as the geothermic geyser to blast me away with after I sink my canines into you. I always knew I’d end by drowning in your water. That’s why I never learned to swim. I’ll be strong, pull your head off, then shut these eyes that have happily gazed upon nothing but your world’s continuous gloaming since time began. The truth was always Caesar’s heart on the Ides of March at a meeting hall next to Pompey’s Theatre. Dead on arrival.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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