A Photograph Of Lemon-Grass

a photograph of lemon-grass.

up to my neck in cyclone on a tangerine express.

all wheels have ears

more botox than I ever dare to comment through a kiss.

wooden limbs of architects 

their stubborn minds of granite, muse and log

playing heroes planting fog

and chanting love-sick prose through a chinese eye.

meadowlark yarn to an incoherent bitch.

this is our city, proud and slender.

no death of nomad yet

has taken root in mojave dust

to lust for heaving breasts of higher rent;

am better now am new.

it was the cheerful stones that bored me half to death,

it was the friday when the nurse let go her moon

and moon'd her yellow backside

with my tonsils full of tin.

plug me in my darling. plug me in.

give me a dream.. smother me in gin

and watch the gangrene-mother rake me in.

I hear you only die on monday's.

it is monday now and still I smell your piss

as the sparrows drink from your thermos flask 

and ask how is your heart? I read your book!

one week shy of twenty years? my god!

were you there when my mother raped me

and offered me salvation through a plum?