little lustful flurries, your hand on the table and i think —
all the fingers soaked, in green-caraway, bought and
sold in great, slave-ship, quantity: you receding
man; desperate throw-of-yourself into the real, eyes-blue
brackish water against, the real gnat
of the conflict sopped-up; find a — cause —
pink harem bodies in theoreticals, draped
around cranium and smoggy candle-slump — creeping
onwards hours of brutal age, sliding in — breasts in frock-coat,
under the stench of lagging on — early birth, cut
the tide and die for — youth, really a bitch-mother
dying and dying expected ahead of time, sucking you off and
down. what is the thing i am repressing: it is
this — the transfer of body, suddenly and violently, thrown
across the cranium into light.
poem: byron
the last pavilion 