King Samo 2001Basquiat pukes;
"I will make this beautiful
Beautiful for you."
He defecates and hurls,
marking his murky palette.
Sticks his finger in the shit and swirls it around
until you see a crown.
And a king.
He is the King .
And he pardons you.
Are you high?
Ive been through that too.
I hurt so much,
my body forgets what pleasure feels like.
Someone offered me their endorphins,
and I said okay.
The spit from my bleeding gums
makes a heart,
a pretty valentines for you my love.
Well thats all that he can afford.
She gave organs to poetry.
Birthed them platonically,
severed a piece from her soul,
weaned them from her milk.
Bestowed them breath, sweat, pulse.
Lungs that heaved,
stomachs that churned,
hearts that hurt, clogged with pain.
I traveled up her thigh,
through a catheter tube,
releasing blockages caused by rich foods-
creamy pastries flicked with a plump pink tongue,
oily meats pooling with moistness.
Junk food devoured impatiently.
patented caramel and nitrate laden sausages-
overly sweet, overly salty,
too much of everything.
I discovered her insides.
her flesh is a delicate pink,
the roundness of bright red and purple,
the network of veins and nerves
leading all throughout her
Molecules, atoms, and electrons with spin-
the moistness of a body, 70% water.
In the narrow maroon space,
the heat and melodic pulse
beckons me: closer, tighter.
I inhale, expand, and squeeze the
pushing it to the sides.
pop! is a delicate sound only I