The lens is inverted,
in my eyes, behind them...
my stamp, watermark.
The inheritance of my birth.
The stained glass of my window where
shards swim like sharks, and
rods and orange cones
plaster directions
back to my brain,
floating in cheap wine
or blood
when I've had too much cheap wine.

Skin the sun, piss on the stars,
the moon...
"my love..."
Whatever.
Pull down the streetlights, strap
them to the back of the car. And
"Just Try"
painted on the back windshield,
we go cruising down
the (insert real highway name)
and for a moment
we were
whatever.

Bury the constellations
in a box made out of thorn bushes
and cheap metaphors,
the kind of metaphors
you can barely smoke
are barely inhalable,
sell for a dollar fifty
at some shady liquor store.
Keep them in a box,
rename them,
**** up every astrologer's year
make them
rewrite their columns
question their gods
sexuality
tax attorney.

Ripen the winter.
The south has... become
exhausted of us.
It doesn't want us.
Our skin is tree bark now
enduring cold
sweating snow...
repeated snow
non-unique snow.
Our skin is stretched masks and
television commercials
for puns
that sell poisons.

Puns that sell poisons,
ripen the winter.
And bury the constellations,
skin the sun.
So many days under
dead grass, scratching,
but...
one thousand tallies
scratched in the chalkboard
faces burnt into all hours
and
burn the ****ing wallpaper
"my love..."
He's already said it better.