I Want You (A Love Poem and Song of Despair)

For the Metaphorical Revolutionaries

I was made for you.

I wanna believe.

I know what we can do.

The stars are the stuff.

We.

We are the stuff, baby.

The stuff.  The baby, the stuff, the baby stuff.
We are the stuff baby.

Look at we.

The stuff. We. We are in it now baby.

You and me.

In the stuff.
We are in the stuff.

I want to sex you.
I want to breathe.

There are digits.  Embrace.  I was made for you.
If I could be everything that I have.
I would still want more.

I would still want more.  The stuff.
Baby.

Baby, we are the stuff.
we are the stuff, baby.

With my electric writer, sipping on nuclear tea.
Need.
Need you baby.
Need you to need me.  With my electric writer.

Sipping my nuclear tea.  Poison.
Poison me.

I want to run from the sea, but I want to fuck it too.

I want you.
I want you to want me too. I would still want more.  I would ruin the sea.

I would piss in it.
I would.

I would be filled with information from the star…..

Running.

I was watching the sea from my balcony.
There was a loaded .45 next to the purse.
I don’t wear purses.

But I want you.

Did you?  Did you want the stuff?   I put the stuff in the chemicals, baby,

The fucking chemicals.
The medic rushed you into the back room.  You weren’t bleeding.

You gasped.
Baby, I want you you you.

You.

I want you.
I want a chemical in a .45.
I want a .45 chemical.  The stuff.  It is the stuff.

“I wanted to sit down again, the way I always do, to spill the blood, so to speak, in alphabetical chemicals, to be the director, but not the writer, of the chemical alphabetical…..but to stop the bleeding.

Not just mine.
Yours.
I want to stop the bleeding.  I want to stop the bleeding.  I want to stop the bleeding.

There is a myth of a lost planet that held the keys to human dna.

The planet is the word.
Baby.  The word.

I want the word.  You want it.  Baby, we want it.

Because we are alchemical.  And only, only, only, the word is alchemical.

Somewhere a French psychologist is evaluating the unsettling dichotomy of self with other, where self is conditioned to consume other, for the merciful sake of the other.
Oh other.
Baby.  The word is the midden of the mind, but yet

The mind becomes the midden.

We are midden.

A .45 is visceral.

Trapped in you, baby, a cold .45

Filled with tremolos….fiery tremolos…..unleash

Eviscerate the adjectives, disintegrate the verbs……

Mind.  I want.
I want you.

A .45 is left on the shore next to that lovely middle-aged couple from the Hill Villages.
you know that couple?
They brewed their own beers.  Nothing but IPAs.

Yeah.  Baby, cool grapefruit dark woood.

Woooood.

Baby.  Wood.  I want to keep you fixed to the .45 because fuck you.

The .45 is the unpredictable.  The union crashes through the outer barricades where the mounted police are.

The union knocks the cops off the horses.

There is violence and things everywhere, probably a .45 or two…

We know who should die, you know.

.45 freedom

.45 or die, bitch.

We are the bitches we call ourselves.
I am.

You are too.

If I want to wrap myself around a telephone pole I will not be violating the NAP.

I want a .45

But I don’t wanna shoot, no I don’t wanna shoot.”

‘Bobby Ray and the .45

‘Spilled his blood on Deadman’s Drive.

‘Had no woman, had no man,
‘Broke his own heart anyway.

Or something like that.  I can hear the song, but I can’t write it.

You wrote it.

Will you share it with me?  Why?  Why?  Because fuck you.

The world doesn’t care if the world cares or if the world doesn’t care because the world is not a thing but a mélange of the bits of your sticky shit you can’t reconcile with the flies that betray the lie you tell yourself, that are you are  not the other, you are not unworthy of special protections, you are not unworthy of special permissions….to hurt.

I hurt.
I had no heart.
I had no will.

The .45 lies in the metaphor when you lie in bed and think to yourself…..

That’s fucked up.
That’s it.
That’s fucked up.

I eat my own shit, metaphorically, and I see it in you.

Other.
The owned.  Baby, I own you when you own me.
Baby, I own you when you own me.
Or something like that.

Something like that.
Do you like it like that, baby?

My nuclear tea pot coughs out jets of ephemeral aphids.
I am.

Nuclear.
We are all in it, baby.  The nuclear, the goddamn fucking nuclear.
We are here.

My nuclear tea flows through this polite conversation.
I am no longer interested in wiping the tea from my chin.

We are here.
On the other side, we staunch the bleeding, or we grow, once again,

Inured to it, embracing the stains as proofs of the sacredness of the very way

That shed the blood.

We are in it, baby, and we might as well fuck

Before they bleed us out.