This City

This city is a thought, eyelashes on invisible breasts
amorous as small cracks in a phrase, twin suns above the harbour.
In the streets, the touch of amber bows the violin, that century in the faded
green pressed with iridescent veins, ecstatic bullets dancing on lawns. Iam innocent, standing here in the same fucking war, murderers and liars, dreams and desires, smashed and lovesick in the light. In the name of the flecked iris, the shrinking lake with its extraterrestrial clothes. Shabby and shivering by women in bruised dresses, I would have had a little more talk of the bitter wind,
how water carved my voice into parts.

Everything collapses into flame-scarred hills,
prosthetic nights, the tint of solitary symbols next to other worlds.
And i have become a window onto muted edges, a kind of rehearsal for terrible, grey-suited men with bones singing wordlessly. The untranslatable holds me,
careening over notes once bathed in by versions of what may be, spine to spine, as if promises and empty elevators need to eviscerate sealed lips
curled tightly in the belly of pale blue code.

Crumbling doorways remind me why our myths were merely comforts
that saw us through the night, while theirs wore the halo of eternity.

There were both veils and sexual agony,
a tower of scent beyond the scatter of sleep, its chaos expectant like
hearts waiting at the corner, glass drifting down to psalmody. A memory of silk hovers over the street, the subway accelerating into its own passion, a canticle alone with this possible unicorn. Shrubs weeping over a past winter germinating the never, mirages of my need to fly across the black and white spilling out of ache, this morning's strange absence.

I half-prayed for giants with one foot woven into
what they could not put into words, ready to sacralize every beast and
hypnotic odour sitting nearby, lascivious amounts of morphine at its side. The barren incline where mad sermons plant satellite drifts, even without language. Sparks flying between a numb, mechanistic symmetry and a variable key to the burnt country's piss of streets. Frothing where i had fallen, an empirical cut of ample thighs to ask more questions of the concrete, not privy to
the dance of chemical moths.