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Hips strangle face,

hips

strangle

face

dissolving

the walls

to repel mountains

in sun.

A hint of brine

a wink

of ocean

you and every

middle-aged

commercial fucker

on a beach

in the tub

but you know,

twitching

from memories

of forced heat,

the new limb

is only good

in the hands of those

who do not

need it.

Have your

vacation.

Fill it up.

In shuddering waves

render the whole man

your great shivering

mass

upon the world.

Your machine

has fixed gears

and cannot

wear out

cannot

wear

out

until the dying

open-mouthed

moment

when the cowboy

conspiracy

is made complete,

poisoned

by the premises

it fed on,

frightened by the appearance

of its end,

dangling by a

thin opaque strand:

another mess you’ll never

clean

but always hard

and warm

and loving.