Instead of I Love You

I’d rather say…

My heart, a meatgrinder pulse in your cosmic stew churns out galaxies of beatpoet farrago. Each beat splicing and fractionating you into every nightmare, every delirium, every synaptic Fata Morgana. You’re the papaver fix that jolts my popovers, the junky serenade that jellies through my nervous system.

Imagine, butter babe, a neon skyline tattooed on the underside of your eyelids, that’s the cityscape of my infection. Every alleyway a memory, every skyscraper a bomb cyclone shrieking your name. And I shirk in my unpressed shirt, a beatnik bard, serenading you with my distortion and static.

You’re a word virus, yellowjacket momma, infecting the universe with our scruffy love. It’s going to be negative fifteen, but I’ll be out there, tangled in a Möbius strip of clenched sphincters, where time unravels, every kiss an eternal shout, every touch a super-sized syzygy. Forget linear narrative, moon pie! I’m a quantum entangled sun in coronal mass ejection across the cosmic void. I’m as asynchronous and disjunctive as they come.

So open your third eye, moonbeam, this ain’t no Hallmark romance. This is pure love that explodes off the page and into your soul via your medulla… will you be my Valentine? My St. Sebastian pin cushion?

What I’m Reading:

As Brion Gysin says: “Man is a bad animal!”

— William S. Burroughs / The Cat Inside