Art by Youmistsuki Saya ∝ Poetry by Michael Larrain

 

I often wonder

Which of us is farther inside the other

if I’m inside you in a dream of mine

and who could the ghost of the earth ever haunt

and how to begin unhooking the bra

at the edge of the stars at the center

of all tumbling water

so that every walk will lead to berry picking

Why else bother with love?

Through the car radio

you’ve lured the night wind into the peach orchard

and It’s making you arch your shoulders

The moans of our comrades forever newlywed

must return to their saxophones by dawn

Before I decide to wash your back

and the sponges remaining in the sea release deep sighs

whose reverberations reach the solitary lion

carrying a single enormous red rose petal

across the African night

in time for the embarkation of Her Majesty’s Ship

The Infinite Inebriant

powered by the lion roaring into the petal without a sound

as chance pursues you

along the paths of phosphorescence

At the edge of the stars

a little surf guitar

and through the car radio

the warm night wind in the peach orchard

is feeling and feeling and feeling

and feeling

you up

 

 

Your Smile

Crest has been shown

to be an effective

decay preventative dentifrice

when used in a conscientiously applied

program of regular brushing and check-ups

in conjunction with a rigorous regimen

of getting royally laid twice a day

either by your beloved

of if you’re temporarily belovedless

by some beautiful stranger or other

(or watching your beloved and the

beautiful stranger getting it on together)

Indoors, outdoors, in bed or on the bathroom floor,

by a woodland stream or in the steamed-up back seat

of a late model automobile,

in an elevator or on a fire escape,

planned seduction or madness of the moment,

wild animals in on the act if you like,

the danger of discovery, blindfolds, spanking,

murmured endearments and tender ministrations

or talking dirty, down and dirty,

roughhousing and flirty,

yet still so sweet, so almost unendurably sweet,

long and languorous with

with slow convulsive kisses, to struggle against and then give in,

(and the regular brushing will make the kisses that much sweeter)

and eye contact that doesn’t waver

or brief, furtive and explosive, with biting

clawing, screaming, weeping and fainting dead away,

Boy howdy and hallelujah, baby, aloha and shalom, more air, more air,

take your own ghost by the throat,

and play for a moment in the service of pleasure,

pleasure so great

it carries you out past loss, past grief,

past fear and worry and the blues and the nightly news,

past knowing or not knowing and into

a country of pure caring for whatever

you can lay hands on where you are

simply fucking, fucking for your life,

fucking until the world makes sense again,

and then, and only then,

can you brighten the world with your smile.