I Got You, Babe
And still you drip your baby blue barf
upon the glistening plane of our reality
You drip drop drip
Let me tell you still about my baby and its concealments:
Proffering spina bifida, cleft palate, molten fontanelle,
the harlequin of our nightmares,
foregrounding our background of ordered shelves and planes of exquisite complication,
a cabinet of curiosities,
the over-image palimpsests and prioritizes the incestuous washings and ablutions,
the extreme unctions, the exoticisms of holy chrism. I exorcize you in the name…
A well-appointed kitchen provides a chef's palette confronting the dry
desires of a harlequin baby bathed in liquamen, filleted and
flayed, a filament. It's a fine line.
A Roman epicure pretends to know what to do with it, this wondrous ichthyotic
treasure of a rich pink womb, fruits de mer of our nightmares. Be
a mother to him.
He needs a mother's care.
Or is it a collodion baby? Pent up pentimento in parchment, stuffed with pimiento,
sitting on the kitchen counter in the penthouse of a Byzantine aesthete glancing towards
The undescended testicles make their journey
Baby blue patterns predominate across the planes of Dakota.
There at the black edges one hears a rattle, a whimper, a full-blown cry. The ball
It's Year One!