The art house is painted in celebrated
thread dresses no one owns,
scraps of books made into light.
The asylum collects people celibate
from themselves. The advice that occurs
most to me is stop working, leave the house.
The steamboat will carry on its drift
with everyone aboard.
I can eat lime-rind all I want,
it won’t bleach my smile,
it’s something to believe.
Cartoon physics scare some people.
If you can shift radio to mute,
you’re doing more than sleeping.
I met the thirsty scholar as he drank
a city of its propaganda.
He is going to write a cave of thesis
that learns about the railway inside
of us, how we can be proud of always going.
I kick the spark that blinks
under a train. It gives me scold-foot.
I swim it in the time the silhouettes
form behind the bedsheet-disco.
All that keeps me in this burn is the magnet,
being a blank shape of a human in love.
Pushing through the family of orphan-spark
coming out of the fire’s head,
I take time finding Dad on the otherside.
Back at camp, I tear a tent in tantrum.
Silhouettes do the sidewinder
in the forest. No train nearby.
I can hear everything. Dad stays
away until morning, tells me
he had to go looking for lost boys,
they could have been eaten by a Kraken
or leaf demon or scout-leader-gone-wrong.
I love how much of him can be fiction
while he makes a magnet of the world
onto himself. It’s something Christ
gave him, he says. His family
is always inside, all that he sees.
We have built a museum in the shape of a vinyl player.
It only holds good music, real music.
The song tuning the air at the moment
has one lyric. Fuck the BBC. I agree.
I have a pet here that is obsessed
with where the music comes from,
what spark falls into me when listening
to know. I go with whatever stays,
which is intentional vagueness.
If you put a magnet to the music,
it gets a grizzly-bear affect, like Dad
when I argue that the Blondie drummer
is average. All the visitors to the museum
have invented their own genres.
The person in front of me, shiny
with drugs, calls this acoustica,
but can’t specify why,
which is also the point, but she arches,
her body needs the definition.
The lyrics are now about someone
bathing in a tub of cellophane,
until they can’t breathe,
the casual gift of mock-water stretched
over them and the lover in the song
is lowered into a microwave to test
their faith. A review of the song
is that Houdini was a fetish artist.
After hearing this, a fighter in the room
will start a band called Rubber-Unite.
Their hit will be Rosemary, which discusses
outrageous concepts such as diet
and additions to cannibalistic meat habits.
I will think about my grandma when I listen.
I never knew what music she liked.
Our slogan for the museum is Pray.
People seem to know that before they enter.
I can find a time of night
that my body will train a spark,
deliver it to the past-boys
I have died through,
their silhouettes thrashed
off their skin, gathered in a pool,
trembling, a scared-heart size
bulb, the bad idea I placed
in the ground for love
to grow. All its leaves
are magnet-snatched plane parts.
I can find a time of day
that isn’t wreckage,
that is an hour, a minute, a second
spent exploring a tear,
hiding my hand in all that is missing.
She cellotapes a spark to my eyelid.
I get the flutter. Sound of a train hurtling.
The kiss is a blinking magnet into my cheek.
I take love from it, barrel-roll home.
He has screwed a bottle cap to the spark-box,
the heart boiling the house’s blood.
I want to drink that Pepsi forever, smile like the boys
who can pull a magnets with their teeth.
In the plaster cracks, he shows guitar thorns, the rose
shed petals, hard as train thunder.
I ask my silhouettes to live in these quakes,
but they are scared of the noise.