Linked to fatuous underclothes, I’m the forecastle’s blurb,
Delicate like whiskey-breath on a dad at daycare.
That perilous infirmary, I implode the wax of its being.
Inside are candies, sliver and red and naughty
Like tinkling, like the twine of a homeless shanty
That binds my heart, my chronicle or self-repair;
Or, mechanically, the way I ignore what goes on at
The bus stop, the guy passed out, the wonder of his abandon
Shuffles me out of some delirium made of cakes, traffic horns
Defrosting me from the stalactite habit, a daycare
I’ve mucus-ed around me, a cocoon made of worship,
I’m shifting already under the weight of. Back off, Translucency!
You unwind by linkage, this cupcake of total discard, fondled
Until the finger holes, groove twists, are ice cream shelves of shame.