He makes the night come and whisper

He makes the night
come and whisper in our ears
I'd been naughty
I'd made mother cry
I'd made her
run round the table.

I often had the same dream
I had the idea that
I'd been eaten up by the cats.

There are never two dreams.

They come up to the children
They come at night.
Grown-ups, they never dream.

We dream with nothing
In my bed
Under the blanket
Yes
It is in my bed beside me
Were it in my stomach
it would be
blocked by the bones.

And if I dream
it is only of you
your face
on every small neck
and you are in
my stomach I have
swallowed you in pieces
and reassembled you like
a shipwreck in a bottle.

how i've tried
to build you something beautiful
floating down la brea
on a silk paper crane
all tarred brackish water
and no sunlit oceans
overgrown with gletchy glabes
it's horrible horrible
it's the only way
I can ensure
only I will ever see it

where are you
Old Bull Lee
where might you be?

gauching somewhere down
on the bayou?
obstreperous stripping
those strapping boys

you are the archetype
of the father himself
your diaphanous bubbling veins
heart pumping formaldehyde
you dyslexic bloodsucker you

you haunt my dreams
babbling like the everyman
you are the bellows
to my slinking negation

oh yeah

fuck Stephen Morrissey

geisha geisha
face all sooty
from stroking your loom
in the shadow
of that eroding hillside
i can write messages
on your alabaster cheeks

take it down
will you
i'd like a large pie
i'd like it cold
so don't bother
with the time

i could float
down the Yangtze
on your two seater hips
and you would smile
up at me with
lopsided professionalism

this is where it devolves
and the pirhanas come
but there are no pirhanas
only me and you
weeping and gnashing
teeth but god
it gets me hard

this film will end
with a tragic accident
because he roils ecstatic
breaking our heartspun agreements

so you like to be
a watcher do you
think that its polite
to stand between the lampposts
in the garden
just watching
through the window?

don't you have your
own violence to tend
to sow and to gouge hollow
like a ruby red
grapefruit in the morning?

because I have my own
young shoots of untenable
madness and they'll reach
for you too
what you think is an embrace
is not an embrace

your orchid leers at me
with its back crooked
from all its vigilance
as an envoy to your
declaration of watching

when the eyes turn
like lovelamps why is it
that we can't look away?
those mossy green watchers
have a black center
with the density of
a thousand dead stars

I've never feared anything but becoming a cliche, which is of course in and of itself the grandest of all cliches. My life has become a series of sanguine non sequiturs, like the perfect dream. And dreams are indeed the perfect things: not constrained by logic or physics or fidelities, we are Gods disconnected from consequence. And how does one write the next sentence, being occupied at every juncture by the inevitability of cause, a predestination, a preterition, an infinity of quantum couldofbeens that I will snuff out by not writing into existence. It seems unimportant yes but so is everything unimportant and so why not lend importance to these mysteries that consume lives and drive a man mad. The ones that keep him sane has led him to kill his fellow man for centuries and there is a peacefulness, or at least a self-containedness in madness, where one does only violence to his own psyche.

On madness, on madness! I cannot keep you from it. It is a poison and it dies with me and I am afraid to die. So taste it because you after all were the one who chose it not me we choose the hearts we love not the ones that pump us full of poison. So it is a different poison you are looking for? I think it is a good choice. This one works slowly. It's a chemotherapeutic salve; I see you happy and I see you dying and I can't stand it don't you see I'm not trying to drag you down I'm only trying to save you by showing you there is a different way. One madness trumps the other it kills it it replaces it. I want you I want you

I want you to be like me