in the light of the world I took stock and,
ate failing stars and,
took pen to the felt of myself and,
found the incision that makes man not like
God and,
ate of it in the basement behind
the oil-cover cloth and in the bathroom
behind the triptych byzantine-style behind
the subwoofing house behind the dancers the one
or two high on speed shaking like my
hands behind the toliet cover to pour out
the metrics to the .00 substance I took,
behind my legs rotted out to join
the floor in mopey deformity: I gotta tell
you it’s the same as reading Plath and her father
the meaning-making Nazi was just
a corpse — but mine, but mine; and here I gotta
say behind the world I remade her: Hephaestus now,
melding in the bowerworld — remaking
face-farce of Circe or some veiled Queen: she is
Byron and not his beautiful friends; moonlighting
with Madame Pychosis — I take her — brain her,
but can’t think of a better end.
poem: moonlighting with Madame Psychosis
