I put up the paper to cover your body in,
there you are, that Platonic poppycock with words in the absinthe of time
just puckered pink and the red there, too
So. Many. Women.
live; ghosts in the scaffolds or folds in the ghosts.
Reading your journal, archeology, really.
in the absence of me
just blue and black ink,
homage to some girlish bedroom and
prairie wind, hairpins,
Fuck you but fuck me
like Toshio Saeki
you cannot replace a woman who gets fucked by a squid.
Clumps of hair— just evidence
carry around those intestines in paper bags feed it—Alive!—to meaningless creatures of Woman,
their dumb heads all tilted back and their mouths open like pleasure like homogeneity like
replaceable like one of three reoccurring characters like interchangeable like plucked but not the
thing that precipitated plucking
… poppers, poetry, pills.
Your body is still here