The Zen synagogue stands perplexed before a set of lovers turning east on an axis of evil.
There's a burlesque husk of Napoleonic suffrage
laid out on my eyelids when I sleep,
yet I feast on hunger in the night.
Hunger like a drumbeat, I am made to understand it in the night.
Dance like a Zen gypsy to its war-like, post high-school pump;
a tormented pulp, kept hidden beneath the Zen soldiering.
I've replaced the hydrogen amputees with Garcia Lorca meandering about the street fairs
in Port Townsend; eyes dripping like those mutilated clocks,
watching the day-glow miniature replica la tour eiffel and the blank faced venis de milo.
The Zen hunger of this eye-locking orgy.
I have no words for you hunger. Not even a shadow of shame.
The Zen witchery is full of spit.
Open mouthed from eons of cock sucking and dry humping,
crazed from solitude.
It cannot stand on its own two feet.
Befitting paralysis it sinks ever deeper
beneath the girth of its own girlish weightlessness.
I have no xenophobic hope.
No defense mechanism to keep myself
from surrendering to the Zen declarations,
or the power of everyday joys and sorrows.
Caricatures of complementary woe;
anticipation quickly ogles apprehension,
her daguerreotype opal-faced and dream weary,
a silhouette suffering soft selenopia;
so much so that she sings her siren song beneath the UV lights,
careful to avoid the glare of street lamps.
The Zen moon-sucking;
the Zen night fuck as though a body were a melon,
meant to be obliterated.
I've taken to speaking in swan song, oblong,
telling you that Moscow is exceptionally yellow this morning,
like a fidgeting finger on the diplomatic end of a wave.
Intimacy is emphatic,
though likewise transcendentalistic.
A myopic topic toppled in the wavering eye of a kaleidoscope.