poem: the sensual object as art rather than self-identification

beneath, inside, around her teeth – release a bloody sphere. how to
interact with the object of desire, with sex as contained
but extraneous feeling, without putting it back
onto the self. anon/ette, she watches it.
the half of the film, grafted onto sleepy haze, becomes
a tainted sunshine thing, carried around
for its potential – scraped away its other meanings,
the red filings under fingernails. on the lakeside
he tells her, you not are not contemporary (compliment)
and she recognizes the filthy-sweet language of her
people, the re[dacted]tionaries.
the girl has white bows blowing from
brown hair, the reviews did not pick up – Poe as reference
to Nabokov. she puts on his mother’s clothes,
I can smell the dust on the lace
in summertime. mysticism as a pressure value within
religion, the wet soft play of mythology
for those who can read the dance. the descent the descent,
the industrial revolution transferred the fertility
impulse entirely to the male, the rise the rise
romanticism holds the same dingy allure, I understand
shoe-gaze as feeling but not beauty, I understand
myself as (detrimentally, successfully) not being
not doing but hovering, just above —
here, inside guilt, is good pleasure good pain
for the reaping.