Love Framed as Other Things

(Read at twenty-four frames a second)

Verlaine shot Rimbaud
in the wrist for breaking it off.

The pulled trigger, the penetrated vagrant.

A lover’s mouthing
like tinnitus.

A physical pit and
prying left, unleaving.

A romance of
precession; inert
cosmic bodies tangled.

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The world’s best breasts
agglomerated here
just for three ninety-nine

a minute.

A perversion of geometries.
What would I give, that face—

men touching themselves
into vagaries of dreams:
A terrific
oneiric
shale
pile
of
fading.

Enter the woman.
(Scene here changes)

—Back home, we’d put out
terriers on the groundhogs.

I’ve been lately having
lots of sex with myself.

Sex as the static
when a singer
lips up a mic.

Love as
Lil’ Wayne’s
verses:

Thick ass
hearses,
‘fuck me’
curses.

An emotional tontine—
no return of interest.

My legs spread wide,
thighs on either side.

Bless the small fact
that I’m together.