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The Lowest of the Low

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The Lowest of the Low

Concave

Concave
Theatre of the absurd
Like a heat wave
Eighth Street and twenty-third
Feeling unframed
Dripping down the chelsea steps
Tasting your name
Crushed up against my lips

In the cool blue half light
Of the car park lamp light

Strange pull
The tyranny of the divine
Cool and painful
Shivers up and down my spine
A new distraction
Bumping up against the dark
In fits of passion
Twisting like joan of arc

In the white hot pure flame
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Of a wide eyed clear haze

You're sloppy-deep in thought
But there's so much nothing to do
Why dont we go get lost
In the afternoon

And the sky struggles to be born
All pink and liminal
Bleeding half animal
Like an animal
And you brush your chestnut hair
And smile as wide as the sky
Like the concave of your eyes
And the scent

Of you warm orange skin's glow
In the graveyard bed clothes
Turn the lock on the door
Pull the cord from the phone