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Saliva of Cherubs
Sit me down,
rocking in the mud, woven disease pasted.
Saliva of cherubs lap my cadaver, antiques in sunlight of lilac water.
And the slime.
A hat, a relic of sick.
5 O’clock shadow.
Pills pouring out a two piece bathing suit, onto gravel, dirty marbles into a mental dimension of Jell-O, late night talk shows.
Rape a baby’s blanket, blue with trim, green with chunks.
It slathers and strokes.
Sit me down,
Holes rip from pores, goggling eyes peek-a-boo.
A haze, a punk rock phase, built from dust of cities.
Golden oil poured, a deluge turning to drippings and hairnets and a mole with a hair that stands alone like herself that morning.
Floral wind, calico playhouses for relics of children in honey and mud and I am here.
Sit me down,
on weekends and holidays and open windows in winter time dressed as lawyers with square shoulders with nooses that convulse with each step.
Limp, limping up wooden stairs.
Sit. Me. Down.
Lay me down.
Bury me deep.
Smells wavering,
serpentine knives cutting without hands on arms and through the cushions, throbbing.
Hair dye sweat that sucks inside frames exposing pink,
puffy,
wet parts that beat like a heart,
that’s on top;
The Queen of all the swollen mass that you are.
