Touching yourself to your lips, in a smoked glass bottle
where you pour the beer more into the glass,
cut off the head with a knife, and pour 
the beer more into the glass. 

There, reclining society sits,
with rippling pectorals and a cracking smile, he
watches you in a pool, watches you touch
yourself to your lips watching you
touch the head, which you cut off
with a knife, grasping the neck.

HOLD IT

Hold it. 
Hold it for a second
there, darling. (You're sweating
in a wife beater with a fizzing
cock and a straw fedora.)

Contemplating the road signs you speed by,
pulling over and lying in the wet grass, to shiver
and drown. Opposite an empty sky, godless
and gasping, drowning in the not
knowing, and sinking in 
the shame of your body.


YOU WATCH

The head, which you removed with a knife, 
roll across the oak table and hit the floor 
with the thud of
the third reich.

It's uncrowned, and you lobotomize it with
your words, and 
your fear, and
all your righteous love. You stare at it,
with this curtain rod of syntax through its eye,
and it looks back 
(you're just swimming again, in the not 
knowing, like the black sky)

WITH ONE OPEN IRIS.