library:poems

Congratulations, luscious raspberry (oh, haven’t heard that one before (!)), the punch clock now clunks without your fingernails. You’ve you cannot lie to yourself, what you want is the Skull fallen out of time, sweet you lusting the Skull drowns you luscious in your ergonomic keyboard ex-employee of the month, no more paper pushing for you, raspberry, your smell wracked hair falls across your face as seconds drop fast before you and behind you, as your tired feet shuffle past the rug. They need to shampoo beneath our desks, that shit is all stained with the skull who approaches with white and protruding teeth take out and rub down, stomp and pulse. And now that time cannot thwack your noggin, you’re free to pass the skull who squeezes her sphincter by beyond; drop that badge, flux the bulletin board whose forest green pants into non designated areas crinkle by the crack of her clenched buttocks Aw, that woman cries too much, you’re sniffling as you pick up the phone sweet Skull, whose ganglionic stringly black mean melancholy syrup of snot rails down your nostril, hair is pulled sniff sniff yes. You can help me now. Far back Okay, here’s the clues: To expose the pale white forehead, the hair trails in historical ribbons in essses on her neck one red card, cartoon face the Skull, it saying hey here’s a smile, paper urchin, click clock girl, your blond it the Skull you desire hair, cuts so sharply and intersects six o’clock, I could have piled all the index cards in your file. You want to hold her head in your hands and glare into one magazine singing praises of two women, those caves for eyes, caves of the Skull none of which are you, but you want to kiss the skull, your lips quiver and you all of my desire, which claw your desk, you pound your wrist-rest, you jiggle a part of you or the lever on your adjustable chair, you meal of you, won’t activate your desire vicariously, burying yourself in faxes and serial numbers and key strokes and titles you frail, Doc saw you in the bathroom lost in the fantastic red ribbed shirt of the skull, of the brushing your finder lack of lips nail over bumps the misaligned breasts of the skull on your face, you’re screaming down the pavement, aawww, a mini-car woman, you’re falling into punchcards inside the mirror, you want nothing to do with that mirror, but it’s better than the clock. Twenty paintings for you, raspberry face, I painted youuuuuu, want to dig in deep, dig into that skull driving you crazy before you existed, so you you, lost paper pusher, you are hunting the hairy hive of never look at yourself instead. The SKULL, you must have the SKULL, her freckles, the spots on her pale bone shined epidermis primping yourself to pieces tissue of the skin, of the skin of the skin of the skull, oh AGONY, she eats her pasta in the cafeteria, your eyes look twenty smaller she is not lonely, I repeat she is not lonely. After you have plucked your eyebrows but you can’t have the skull, she won’t come for you, you still can’t see the punch clock, won’t look at the punch clock. And she could be the plainest plain skull of all, and Hercules is choking on a chicken bone when all time belongs to a little red box that he spots her face, bone fail face, big forehead, knife cheeks, sunken treasure you pass your card through spotting eyes, o nostrils, lack of lip, tombstones for teeth, time in four digit LED display beeping spotted grumbly crumbly skinned skull woman drive you like an obscene road runner, pelting your name at you CHRISTINE CHRISTINE Raspberry GIRL, COME HITHER, DON’T YOU KNOW, CAN’T STAND YOU CAN IT, GOT TO GET MY CLAWS INTO YOUR HAIR. You insane, you could die, you can’t get a piece of the skull your shoes klink their heels together, knocking poundache from the spiral spring on the snack machine. Open drawers. Here, take eat, stuff this 65 cent pound cake, remember me clutching your cubical, feeding you words, offerings, and nothings, and nothings, and nothings. Utterings, Raspberry Girl, bear in mind, not that you have escaped time, that you continue to be stuck on site in geography, under the rule of a tyrant, the skull wants nothing to do with your paintings, you you’re not Robespierre, you’re not Voltaire, your blond hair knotted in your tiny slit eyes, you’re not standing by a coin fountain in Philadelphia with me, smelling horse shit, trailing Ben Franklin, you’re not holding my hand on the cobblestone terrace on Pine Street, you fraud, she reads your poems, the skull finds luscious raspberry, you’re no Rousseau, you’re not nothing there the woman sitting starry eyed across from my danish in Baltimore, ribbon Your works are in vain round your neck, reading she seeks nothing poetry as we wax on the nature of time you’ll never get her in the ass And O, no Danton, drop that pen, you are not figuring out the bill, hand down my pants in the Russian Tea Room. You cannot lay one finger on the skull, and Diderot, I’m not making love to you, faster an harder, in no lover, not today, not ever in a closet in any time zone, not in a small studio on G street in any time past present or future, in any geography not in Washington DC that is not any dimension of alternate reality or fantasy, a bead of sweat dropping off your neck, non - philosopher your legs are not in the air, you’re no spread fuzzy sunshine raspberry, the skull moves not for you in eternity not in ever you’re not eating any poundache. I’m not telling you, Christine, I’m asking, I’m asking, Are you hiring? Can I expect any word this week?