Reading Celine’s Death on the Installment Plan and Martha Nussbaum’s Upheavals of Thought, between viewing French and Japanese rom-coms and other melodramas and composing Before 7 Falls, a symphonic poem in d minor, more or less…
a female agist goes into a bar in heaven
an angelic barmaid places a cork coaster before her
painted with the face of death, she says,
to the agist, ‘what’ll it be, sugar?’
The femagist says, ‘sorry,
what’s the question…exactly?’
I was there last night, watching…
making the rounds with the angel of death
It’s a kick, watching her work, gives me fever
Later, in the alley out back
Her tongue slips into my mouth,
I vibrate in the heat of her orgasm.
Off she goes again to cuckold me
throws back a laugh, casual
over her shoulder
black hair still swaying in the rhythm of intercourse.
Some of my friends are sex-pos, at war with the sexual shame in which they may also be trafficking. There’re some closet racists, too, neotenous, agist with degrees of schizophrenia (redundant); a dollop here and there of bi-polars among the bi-sexuals; some self-deluding honest crooks, kooks and housewives; some sell eternity, starting tomorrow, their egos melted together could suffocate a small planet, imagine, vanity, wicked like a candle, eclipsed the night.
An elephant moved into the apartment above mine. It’s often restless, stumbling back and forth across hardwood floors…