Crucial

Do I need a green glass mirror, gilded with roses, or the Wiipocrypha or some new version of the Gita, with robots and females cumming loudly, to bridgebuild my way over the River Today? Enough with the nonsense, my stomach’s sagging. Someone call the doctor—it’s crucial, and not like, this soup is crucial, no, more like crucifixial, like blood puddling at the feet, puppy style. Yes, like a pile of dead fucking puppies at my feet. Yeesh. Back to today—my mom had surgery and the face book told me—does that make me a bad son, a son of a mother who doesn’t make fusses, or too techno drenched to do anything other than stare the screen down? Beauty says, Mirror, mirror, show me the beast.

Bodies

Stars writhe in the hot electric night above the lake on which your white palms reflect.