Ship to Venus

it is on your breast
that sometimes i see
as a chanting chandelier
paying no heed to the inactive metronome
the cursive of the answers
to the prayers i uttered when
the sun was simply
too hung over to continue
posing
as the only star;
because here from griffith i see many
playing musical chairs
with the chemtrailed orbits
the libretti in formal and balanced agony
offering a gourmet
rain
on the mammaries that are
your observatory,
and as suppositories finally taking effect
i can hear music
carnivalesque
and at times intermittent
like the opportunities
long gone
long forgotten
from the fractions of seconds
the adagiettos that were my youth
kicking kush kiedis
canivalesque and smooth,
riding streetcars to the mountains
writing letters with the dimples of the fountains,
and with their luminosity
i once believed this land was also mine.

before the abduction of my pineal gland
there was a time when my eyelashes
sewed an infrared landscape through the aortas of san pedro
and i witnessed in pastel colors
the dementia growing old;
but now
the whiskey-induced pagan rite that has become
lapiz lunar love for you
is lacking mimis and rodolfos.

in the roundabouts that are
when gondola meets trash
i shall dress in drag and perhaps
the moans of ganymede will finally suffice
to blend
the piercings your capitols have crocheted to my left and right
and all around me
-those felicitous hickies that placed so much percussion
in the bermuda triangle of my legs
and without warning
bent me over in paradise pier
-a mounted opera
these moans of mine.
perhaps someday the scores of your pseudointellectual thighs will point me in the right direction
that i may find
the fractured tar
that glued the son of venus
to your runyon hues;
perhaps your dissected bruins
the neon of your veins
when livid by richter strains;
the times i’ve swallowed towers of many watts
too bright
too shattered to remain enrolled in a bullriding class
teach the mutet to other generations.
and paying no heed to my weight, to hesitations,
the nervosa experienced carpentered summation of emotions
beyond the oral fixation that is
your skippered past.

but we are the same,
your sonnambula and mine.
you just haven’t translated the ceremonials yet.
you just haven’t swallowed the comet’s pride.

i too have been prostituted.
i too have had my wings graffitied and
liposucted.
i too
have tried
to juggle the words of revelation
through spanglish myrrh.

can you not taste the salt of my turnings
as i watch the flames gomorrh the canals?

when will your basement expose your cinematic repertoire
that now adorn history books
spiraled with obsidian rafts?
when will holly be found
in your belly during smooth bowel movements of anthropogeny?
when will your colorful feathers
take flight beyond the marmalade of wine?
beyond the powers?
beyond the principalities?

the miscounted bars have announced
it’s almost time to seek new partitures for the deliverance.

and it’s all i ask
that you’re faithful to me
the way
my pores and cells
have been faithful to your cropcircles,
and have kept locked
inside the geometry of my mayan nostrils
the snowed dialects you have not revealed to melroses and meldaisies
but to those that can achieve
the static ringing of the
saturnian storms
that breed your love for dolores and deloreans.

i ask that you glue yourself to me
the way your nephilim intestines
have left their mark around my baritone sighs
in glyphs of palmistry thrice subtracted by the torrents of ether,
when i paid homage to your sand
during one or two sleepovers
with salvia and with pan.

i just hope the reptile’s tongue
doesn’t swallow us first
and a new pyramid is erected
in the flats of simi
without Land
and without bulbs.

i just home the aqueduct pointin north
still remembers how to become tobogan.