Monday, September 21, 2009

Judgment of the Furies

We inherit grace, middle school and needles.
Recall how we were gasoline weaned
for mercy’s sake because mercy delights
in her electrical lights (bitch) meanwhile sparks
on the horizon are a prelude to the whip of dawn,
her magnetic cleavage beneath the meteor gown.

You men who worship at the temple gown
we can see you are in full endowment, needles
opening the gates to penetrate the crowd, dawn
of faces in delight. She stitches with grab cloth to wean
the abandoned flesh with the illuminating sparks
in hidden faces, by covering forbidden delights

in the feel of the sling in a beefy dress, delightful
and sexy, how the shudders trumpet in a patched gown,
how well she sutures it to my face with sparks
like a mouth. The officers assign needle-
time to fix utterance to your mouths, still unweaned
of distance, other undiscussed gasping dawns,

like the good or free will entombed in the hard dawn
of her new predicament, pouty with a tourist’s delight
for gasping sake in the leaving off. Rip, weaned,
rip rip, oh the windows open with new gowns,
a hand slung bodice of beads made with needles.
I remember being drawn, joined like sparks

to kindling, into fire then rearing from sparks
up onto cloth, exploding your clothes like a dawn
sky investing fingers with the ruse of needles.
Come water, she thinks, bead by bead. It delights
with shudders the fading water of the faithful gown.
She uses her jiggling trumpet call to wean

the pavement and grasses, she disaster weans.
What comes after? the radio? disasters sparking
earthquakes in solidarity with the long grass gowns
over what is sufferable, the held breath, dawn
shaped sewer’s burning lungs. The ocean bride delights
in the first dance on the surface of needles.

So the dawn of her dark eyes sparks needles.
My hand goes through her dark gown and I lose
it. She weans me of judgment and I delight.

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