High Sooner

Nothing akin to the pathetic light of day wakes you
with such a start as a connection-
our earlier death marked the rise of a totalitarianism that picks
at the scabs on my knees until they are white,
click click and removal, pricks my ears with dark joy
at your head, your mouth, your breath that is also mine and the rabbit
that stared and stuffed its mouth with gemstones,
we gave it rhinestones
and it stared in disbelief, piercing sun shine beams knotting in its brow.
It's so dark but I saw an ear twitch, I heard slurred shouting
and broken glass mixed with the heady toxins of his mother's little precious
taking cocaine and whiling away the days until the dole office pays
and the trees mid-sway condemn the light of day
for agreeing to illuminate our stuttering bodies, rancid frames that strip off and
join together, filling soil and water and plant life with the overflow
from our dissatisfied minds.

England is dead, only the Pavillion remains. My butterfly answers swamp your
violent lies and latch onto the burden of rhyme,
black men walk through my head on blue fishes, asking me to strike
a match. But there's no time to sit down and reason
because the world is schizophrenic and I cannot argue with the mind
that walks in buttercup valleys and seeks the candyfloss reptiles
that dart and twitch for the next fix to keep their blood hot.
There is no longer a collective, and even the most militant of feminists can't shout
loud enough to drown out the sound of drool falling from billions of mouths
onto steel.
Shallow dystopias mapped out in the minds of pessimists crumble before
a vision of paradise. In your beautiful head, there is no you. Nor me.