LiVE MAG!

THE HIGH PRIEST

If you could demonstrate something to me, anything,
of our late capital reality, ’twould at least be comforting.
It would assume operating prosthetics has a function,
that firmness and finesse are consecrated marrow too.

Or if, say, you could tell me more about the dummy—
its floral bodice and littoral sections, its waving airs
much like actual sculpted waves, of what things are
supposed to be once living, if anything’s really living.

Either way, I grow tired in a rowing isthmus, fruited
with what abandonments the sky performs for itself.
I’ve suffered, too. Pierced as this diamonded droplet
held in front of you, set into the meat of your hands.

BOULEVARD RASPAIL

I WOULD TELL YOU THAT I DON’T KNOW.
–GIORGIO DE CHIRICO

Today too is an impostor. The cut fruit,
The garbled scented meat, the poured egg,

The steamed milk, the fresh coal, lazy silks
Of corded rose—we’ve seen these before.

They appear then emerge quite naturally.
So, taking delight, one is taken by delight.

Drifting over corrugated space, wondering
Nerves become exposed, eroded and raw.

Fragrant lips of the minute sour closed.
Drops of peppermint drip onto wrists.

Anonymous weeping seeps into bone.
Shading windows, adrift over andirons,

Metal light dangles like a foreign lozenge.
Night cools, pools open, comes and goes.

My life has led to this. Searching in sleep,
Arriving at a corridor, not bankrupt, just alone.