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Demons haunt our every breath

Something is greatly disturbed, grieving over scrubbrush,
viewed from atop it looks like a crewcut,
on a drunk boy who looks like African Violets,
fuzzy like the underbellies of bees, humming in increasing velocity.

Tragedies, like being buried alive, are:
being declared insane and unable to prove otherwise,
if there’s nothing to the world but material coincidence,
various tortures, some of which are interesting,
realizing late in life that most decisions were wrong,
the senseless waste of mass, et cetera.

Darling hold me like a Pez dispenser,
worship me like a strange Egyptian deity,
the one with the nine-foot penis preferably;
won’t you offer supplications to me,
like Dagon the god of the Philistines,
like he did I mean, to the Ark of the Hebrews,
prostrate on the ground –
imagine, a nation with the clap –
won’t you cuddle with me
and toast marshmallows on ou
r bright blue bug-fryer –
I love to sit
late at night
and listen to
their annihilations.

Something’s wrong, it’s rotten, disturbed,
like when I was crawling to get the soccer ball
and I lay prone in an anthill. Something’s awry in my area of focus,
and something is wrong in Seychelles, some islands
which are beautiful, before they drown,
before I die, before the end of the century.
If they had natives, imagine what they’d think.

Say something primitive to me, sweet,
remind me that we’re all pagans at our hormone-secreting organs.
Whisper something in Sanskrit or Phoenician,
or Ugaritic, I don’t even know who speaks that nowadays,
I’d like to learn Akkadian myself,
I wonder how you say “I’d like a hotdog”
in Akkadian. What do you mean?
What did I–? What do you mean, was it the Akkadian remark?
Demons haunt our every breath
Come on, we’ll watch Doris Day together