The Gaslight Hotel

Negative Grammars

I think not a time I do not wonder
how immense birds lift so easy
from the lake-- here in Arles
I tongue another coat of spitting paint
upon the dead center of her sex.

Never not a time I do not dismay
through evening's gnarl and laze,
how Laura’s formative cry starts
but adumbrates at the rim. Quaffs
in her throat bring something
from inside that pulls her back,
stops her below the brim.

Never not a time she did not want
her all-day tightness unwound.
Never not to ask, O please!—send
your open lips deep inside
my hunching chair and
leave them there.

But no use.

She stalls at that fecund second,
rolls her eyes to the time,
tells me to lift up, go out, gather
strawberries, the wings of female
butterflies, lady bugs
and rotting-ripe orgasmic pears.

The sun rises, sets and rises again--
fly away distant tiny birds,
fly home to Mandalay, sing in-caged
delightsand with your beaks,
heat the slippies of jungle Queens
mating exogamic upon woven mats
in their native Poon.

Should there have been a time?
Could it be explained by laws
of negative grammars
that there was never not a time
I did not love birds immense,
but small in distance-- birds
soaring above trees, and never not
a time I did not try to give her release,
by my lips, cock, or toys found
in dresser drawers-- and never,

not never leave her clogged,
sitting corked as a jug of shine,
stopped-up, sitting in her juice,
fingering her never-drying always
trying hot wet pelvic chair.

And never not a time I do not
want to leave Arles, take a train
to Kansas City.

##
dt