Meet me up in my Christian arena,
lying in my city, sitting on my pillar.
Dress me up in the ugly emoji
clown paint of a sad-blooded killer.
Smack me around and wind my wounds.
Wind my wounds with wire. I'm deranged.
Why me with answers, show me no
goddamned god with no devotee.
Beat me anywhere and puff me up, ante up
my whistle. Prepare to bristle strange.
Force it. Flood it with blood and spit
and then rescue it, stick it in the sluice.
Make it an animal animated by fear.
Pour it. Pour. Booze makes me loose.
Wreck it protected, treat it like a child.
Make it wild dressed in mandrill blue.
Hold it. Upbraid it. Abuse it abusively,
ride it on stock. Pin it up and keep it near.
Point it back to scold and mold it down—
and I'll absolutely hold it down. It's true.
Bless us. Wreck us protected. Pick us
up in the blackbleak shadows of rape.
Blast us creaked and cranked so high
we get the crackling needles up the nape.
Send us classless into the burning hour
of comfort begging in the burnished street.
Bruise us till we bleed, breed us till we're
seed, break us of all reason, no reason to lie.
Crease us and crack us in the careless margin,
cream us cruelly and cruise us sweet.
Wind its wounds with wire. Collage it
in a coil. Don't roil it—tighten it instead.
Redden it with a killerchild's breath
held in a huff of heated wet-the-bed.
Fist it balled in the sinister crawl space,
whited and knuckled, ungloved and hot.
Slip it drugs, to be sipped or be sniffed,
to sleep through the scare. Then let death
death it, dye it gray and stiff. Leave it—
let it harden its flesh unloved to rot.
The audience throng sees me pale,
runs around me while I flail and fly.
Hey band, play me the drone beat—
I better my bet and fail out of the sky.
A wave of phototransubstantiation,
I'm light itself, I flicker and spill.
Let the sciences record me bright,
awe shining right from my feat.
Remove my makeup to take up my
absolute magnitude—yes I certainly will.
from [redacted], a collaboration with Mark Fox, 2019
MY SHOWS ARE LEAN, GROSS, RELISTED