Fancy Beasts - Alex Lemon

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T-SHIRT IN SANTA MONICA

      being here

      Listless blight, safe words, every little

       Sound in the night is a gasp—bone tip

      Blossoming through skin. It’s no

       Bull, man. Anymore, we’re all winners

      & afraid to pull these faces off.

       Maple leaves & plastic bags somersault

      Through the park. One cloud

       Grips the moon. Call me anything

      Before morning comes, little lover,

       Because it’s true & doesn’t fucking matter.

      Kill the lights. Feel the burn. Rev yourself

       Up & sing along with the good thrum

      Found in everything. Hang around

       Until the end. Melt my ashes on your tongue.

      all of the made roads

      Choosing

       My life, I drop

      Quarters in

       The slot

      & select

       The worst

      Song on

       The jukebox

      & then sneak

       Out to

      Watch

       Through the rain-

      Streaked glass.

       O feverish

      Praise—I can

       Feel night

      Struggle

       To lay

      Back in

       Its own dark.

      way out west

      A hard rain will show the secret

       In the architecture of bones

       Much better than sunlight believe me

       Or fractures I promise you

       So soaked T-shirts drip like a true skin

       While we walk laughing

       Down the beach & after the drops stop

       Pocking the water the tricks

       That play on the growing green then

       Bluer waves O blackshark & tigerbelly

       Out there Believe me How I wish

       I could wrap everything I see

       In cellophane & keep it forever in the freezer

       This fizzing pier life Arches painted

       In a crown of muscle men & clown faces

       Red coral lips & russet mustaches

       All the finest whisperings of deeper-than-just-flesh

       Each sunset something out there

       On the horizon looks like it’s waving

       An arm going under & down Vanishing

       Into the watery sweep & even in

       The complete black after

       Everything’s slipped from the world’s shelf

       A sort of gravelly piano rails

       Over the palm tree’s hidden speakers & though I know

       Some things believe me

       They are so few & stars are burning

       Mouths in the sky Believe

       Me & the desolation of legs outlined

       By a wet blue skirt leave

       Never enough time to explain

      ghost in the latrine

      If the choice between

       The men’s & women’s

      Restroom decides

       Your identity, what does

      The man playing air guitar

       With a tennis racket

      In front of the urinals

       Have to do with Lacan?

      I thought it was Larry Craig,

       But he turned around & it was

      Craig Mack that slapped me

       & said that this was his

      House. It was a thousand degrees

       Beneath the sink lights.

      I wanted to ask why He was in the ladies’

      Room, but the twists

       In my gut froze me.

      Razzmatazz slopped

       Across the tiles. My life

      Story appeared in the mirror

       Steam when he stormed

      Out. I don’t remember

       There being such a dearth

      Of good music, so many

       Apples gonging on tin roofs.

      more wind

      I watch the beautiful

       Charity of a body peeling,

      The heart floating

       In a bathtub for hours

      Before sinking to the reddy

       Bottom. Sing, I love you

      Like the sea-salty kiss Of death while toweling

      Off & my finger will rap

       The window glass. I swear

      My intentions are pure—

       But damn—those bags

      Under your eyes are

       Dynamite. What kind

      Of hotness are you smuggling

      In there? I’m too brittle

       For Twister, so come on,

      Let’s play spin the neuroses.

       I swear there won’t be any tie ’em

      Up & spank spank. Not one

       Second of Boggle, I promise.

      Out here it’s the land of the free.

       Home of the craven.

      Come out, come out—

       Show me what you can

      Do with a dozen skunks

       Nailed to a dead man.

      it had only been dead a few hours

      What a strange paradise this is—

       languid apricot trees & birds

      of paradise. Tire-flattened

       oranges in the alley & ants

      in the hummingbird feeders.

       Neighbors peek from the blinds

      when the sprinklers torque on

      

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