The Ramblings of the Mad

Our voices hung on static, hot air Evaporating silver lettered bullets  Chasing thoughts Those lips grazing the soft parts Of a copper temple

“I don’t want to go home.”

“You never do.”

The breeze moved He placed a hand Over his father’s hat

(Whenever his father came  He brought the hat When he left He took the hat And the last time he vanished He left the hat A wool scar on the boy’s memory)

“Maybe I should let the wind take it.”

“It’s already home.”

That hand moves from wool To flesh Cupped the left breast

Like Adam Gripping the pomegranate And all the lies it told

Like Galileo Gripping the telescope And all the truth it held And ourselves Legs tangled  Believed  Wholeheartedly That we had time 

That his veins would  Never collapse Like his sweat slipping  From the pink of his lips  To my temple From my fingertips  To his belly 

I still try to frantically erase That mix Of wheat, sweat, skin, and dark.

You are the reason  I'm obsessed with hip bones

Unfortunately Yours was built From the remnants of stardust From a long extinct universe A molecular structure Too lawless, too foreign To be repatriated  Into ours

And the last time we met You were in repose Draped in fine cotton On a metal bed I whispered into you temple

(You pallid bastard)

My final benediction Hollow anointed words

Sometime After midnight And before  The death march of traffic Two bodies Strewn under the warm blue glow Of a muted rerun Sunk deep under A warm blanket Of boredom

-Let’s watch the next one.

-Not interested.

-Then what?

-Hey…what does your hip bone taste like?

The rerun bled into the next And midnight Crawled toward  Daylight

-The moon and ennui

-Those aren't flavors

What if

We never rid ourselves

Of the scents of others

Buried in our hands

Their cells

The dregs and whispers

Of dying moments of existence

Of skin we have held

Our fingers dirty

Steeped in filthy mementos

Entire cerebellum crushed into mouth Withdraw, a snail into its heavy shell

Hurting jaw, chaotic syllables that ride high on flames Watching desperately, as the more human folk retreat

Please climb between the letters and silence the rattling Need a grave for the never-ending words to die

When they removed the pill That chemical compound That precious salt Her mind peels… Slowly…moving Over The moon’s waning and waxing And she begins to time everything Carve and hack everything 

Her hand woke up 2 minutes Before the cacophony Of a clock in the ink Between sleep and wake Her hip awoke 1 minute Before the angry bells toiled And the slow moan from her throat

Was right on time. And in her palm She rolled those Clock hands Pushing seconds over minutes Plowing into hours Only to repeat Eating away the day Thinking about her rolling hip

Grinding cogs to get back To that quiet land of dark With just one clock hand One silly hip bone Slinging a pendulum That, intense pulsating harmony Until the whole chronometer Bursts into water and flames And danced on oblivion

Trapped on a rock In the middle of the sea Liquid serpents Circling lazily Splashing blue and black waves On her dangling feet

Fog's liquid knuckles Brushing her calloused palm Slid around her starving torso Lacing itself around an anxious neck

Bind the brittle broken bones, With ribbons of red candle wax, Sink them deep into pillows of fog with bare soles Drown voices in crooked curls lapping at bed frames and necks

And marvel at the dark smell of fingers and knuckles inching around each other

When the sun crawls over the night's dying body, And those knuckles and fingers release Ushering feverish bodies back into the metal world To buzzing, infuriating humanity

And they don't remember Each other’s names

There is no need.