Fancy Beasts. Alex Lemon
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T-SHIRT IN SANTA MONICA
being here
Listless blight, safe words, every little
Sound in the night is a gasp—bone tip
Blossoming through skin. It’s no
Bull, man. Anymore, we’re all winners
& afraid to pull these faces off.
Maple leaves & plastic bags somersault
Through the park. One cloud
Grips the moon. Call me anything
Before morning comes, little lover,
Because it’s true & doesn’t fucking matter.
Kill the lights. Feel the burn. Rev yourself
Up & sing along with the good thrum
Found in everything. Hang around
Until the end. Melt my ashes on your tongue.
all of the made roads
Choosing
My life, I drop
Quarters in
The slot
& select
The worst
Song on
The jukebox
& then sneak
Out to
Watch
Through the rain-
Streaked glass.
O feverish
Praise—I can
Feel night
Struggle
To lay
Back in
Its own dark.
way out west
A hard rain will show the secret
In the architecture of bones
Much better than sunlight believe me
Or fractures I promise you
So soaked T-shirts drip like a true skin
While we walk laughing
Down the beach & after the drops stop
Pocking the water the tricks
That play on the growing green then
Bluer waves O blackshark & tigerbelly
Out there Believe me How I wish
I could wrap everything I see
In cellophane & keep it forever in the freezer
This fizzing pier life Arches painted
In a crown of muscle men & clown faces
Red coral lips & russet mustaches
All the finest whisperings of deeper-than-just-flesh
Each sunset something out there
On the horizon looks like it’s waving
An arm going under & down Vanishing
Into the watery sweep & even in
The complete black after
Everything’s slipped from the world’s shelf
A sort of gravelly piano rails
Over the palm tree’s hidden speakers & though I know
Some things believe me
They are so few & stars are burning
Mouths in the sky Believe
Me & the desolation of legs outlined
By a wet blue skirt leave
Never enough time to explain
ghost in the latrine
If the choice between
The men’s & women’s
Restroom decides
Your identity, what does
The man playing air guitar
With a tennis racket
In front of the urinals
Have to do with Lacan?
I thought it was Larry Craig,
But he turned around & it was
Craig Mack that slapped me
& said that this was his
House. It was a thousand degrees
Beneath the sink lights.
I wanted to ask why He was in the ladies’
Room, but the twists
In my gut froze me.
Razzmatazz slopped
Across the tiles. My life
Story appeared in the mirror
Steam when he stormed
Out. I don’t remember
There being such a dearth
Of good music, so many
Apples gonging on tin roofs.
more wind
I watch the beautiful
Charity of a body peeling,
The heart floating
In a bathtub for hours
Before sinking to the reddy
Bottom. Sing, I love you
Like the sea-salty kiss Of death while toweling
Off & my finger will rap
The window glass. I swear
My intentions are pure—
But damn—those bags
Under your eyes are
Dynamite. What kind
Of hotness are you smuggling
In there? I’m too brittle
For Twister, so come on,
Let’s play spin the neuroses.
I swear there won’t be any tie ’em
Up & spank spank. Not one
Second of Boggle, I promise.
Out here it’s the land of the free.
Home of the craven.
Come out, come out—
Show me what you can
Do with a dozen skunks
Nailed to a dead man.
it had only been dead a few hours
What a strange paradise this is—
languid apricot trees & birds
of paradise. Tire-flattened
oranges in the alley & ants
in the hummingbird feeders.
Neighbors peek from the blinds
when the sprinklers torque on