At the Rave with Your Artist Friends (1)
Sumerian fog suggests another sandslathered dawn
Your arms weak from an expenditure of pleasure to now unseen
Lensing for planets on which you might settle
With your straw husband, sparking
Hooked inside your arms through the hole left
By the miragic champion of obligatory squander
By the prima nocta of the veterinarian inside your kickdrum
By the kickdrum no living mind will ever flex to comprehend or love
Maybe go catch a rave in the district of columbia
Where the ankles of every mammal may
Roll across themselves in front of iridescent mirrors
And from a certain slant of light
The wings on either side of your
Boneglistening redemption might ride
but tonight? No,
not tonight,