The Collected Poetry

Decompositions

Oh my God, I'm disintegrating.

Maybe I like you 'cause,

You let me decay faster.

Semi-literate, poet I am,

You're only naked, and one-toned,

It drones in the background,

Too big for Thomas Jefferson,

And too small for my wife.

I'm in a vortex made of America.

Fat, paper, drool, steel, leather,

Gold, frankincense, caffeine,

Are eddying around my stand.

Don't you dare crawl away from me,

I haven't told you how much you scare me.

Synthesis is ecstasy.

That's the kind of face I'd work for-

It turns slightly, fine-featured fugue,

You seem to gleam uncertainly.

She doesn't like speaking loud,

Or wearing much special,

And smiles wistfully on birthdays.

She's gone, always slightly closer,

To her coffin than I am, oh well,

At least I'm a foot up in her whirlpool.