Jodhpurs and Clavicles
There’s no telling where I end
and you begin. All the kings men
are in the kitchen doing jujutsu with Jane.
The afterparty contains hostile agents
and bad news about the divine.
Your lips are layovers in a foreign train station.
Portals to a parallel reality
double back with dates and revisions.
Your friends call you the queen of Mars.
Dodie remakes the world with ECM classics.
Our talk turns to jodhpurs and clavicles,
the lilacs wilted in the vase on the table.
There are the wounds we are given
and the wounds that we choose.
I must be bricked up alive for the fortress to stand.
My dear ________________ ,
“Charlie don’t surf.”
The TV is a UV burn.
Horror Sleaze Trash 