The Rapture

pansies paninis
penises going through gateways
of space/ time shine the ever bright
interstellar voyager
ya panties thrown up beyond the dresser
what the world doesn’t know about you
is the panties down at the
foot of the dresser
it can’t be
I am drunk off this brand new wine
don’t need to ferment long
for it to become a song
anyone can turn pop star in Vegas overnight
check the sun blemishes
the lioness guesses
famishes will
cover the earth

ya flat tire fuckers
ya milk duds
ya dead beats
vampires…
fuck ’em dead into shade

loungin…

you can call me Reggie on Facebook
“yo Reggie what’s goin down?”
but I won’t answer because
Reggie is not my name

listen to yourself thinking
the bones broken, sore, waifish
there is a draft in its high capacity
at this significant subtle juncture

since I was little, realized
I was after the rapture
it don’t pay much
look like much
but it’s the motherfucking rapture

it’s true— can’t trust too many (can’t trust the kryptonite)
they hide their skeletons deep in walk-in closets as big
as my apartment

“you know you should write a whole poem
based on people’s baggage… what they bring
into the room, bring into work, bring into a relationship…”
that would be too easy
your beautiful double-standard is buckling
this is a power trip
but tables turn so don’t
act so surprised

fundamentalist dilapidations

if we can’t handle… these angels of mercy
how are we gonna handle aliens?

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