This Not The First Time I Wrote This, Part 23

(Song of the Socials)

My heart winds round the distant star.

Your heart.

No, my heart, my heart is distant, it is distant in this star.

A star?

Your star.
No, a star.

The pistil drives through the stamen.
My heart.

The pistil.  The heart.
My heart, the pistil.

Your heart is a pistil.  Your distant heart.
My heart.

Here we go round again, that stamen, that dripping of pollen, the powder fluff
aerosol that magnets in the bees, the bees, the

Bloody fucking bees.
My heart.

The bloody fucking bees.  My heart.
Your heart is a distant buzz.  That stamen, there, at the end, dripping,

Nay, dripping with pollen.
My heart.  My distant stamen.  The heart of the bee’s throat is a mangled wanting, two fluffs for me,

Three thousands fluffs for queen, my mouth her cup, a
surfeit of her hunger, not mine.

There.  That thought. I think it is starting to alight.
My heart.
My distant heart.

Your heart is a bee’s honeycomb gasping for pollen to grind to sweet gold. 
The pistil.  My God, the fucking bloody pistil.

All sutured for the insertion, a mélange of dripping pollen and hardcore sex with plants….
With plants.  With MOTHER FUCKING PLANTS!
My heart.

There is the distant heart pulse mirage of the boom we imagine gave birth to this shit.
Your shit.  My shit.
We all have shit.

Here we go round again, friends, the budding and the raping, the honeycoming and the fucking.
I am a bitter gift.

Your gift.  Your bloody fucking heart.

“Am noticing a lot more people with styes in their eyes, and the stench, the mother fucking stench, the people clotted with their own blood tars.”

You want to feel it…alone.  Say it, say it asshole.  You want to feel it alone.

You ALL

Want to feel it alone.  The band has begun to warm up.

How does that song go?

World turned upside down, world turned upside down,

World turned upside down, world turned upside down.

There should be beats with this, my friends, my lovely friends.
Someone wrote this for you, out of their own shit.
On the bathroom stall in a Washington, DC brothel where the Lord withered with the sad songs

That wafted over the panicked pulse of the newly acquired….

My heart.
Where is your heart?  Who do you kill in that fucked up mind of yours?
Don’t be afraid.  We did it too.  We all did.
We do.

My heart is a distant song.  It’s not even my fucking song.
“When I was a boy, we lived in a row home on the south side that still had an old coal cellar in it.  We’d trundle down the narrow (even for small boys) steps, entering the danger of the coal-laced air, with the aroma of the ancients, or so they seemed to us, the ones who shoveled coal, who struggled in this stick and daub structure, like us, only we had oil heat now…still, still, still, I wanted to go back, back to that time when we cut into the coal cellar, seeking myth and magic, with Billy Fucking Joel playing Billy the Mother Fucking Kid, only it was just called Billy the Kid…..he was a bad dude, and he was dead, and we was wanting, we was, we was wanting to kill a man for snoring…yeah…fuck yeah.”

My heart.
You hate the vulgar.  This pleases me.  I am enraptured in your civility.
Dumb bees gather in the honeycombs, unable to fuck, unable to drink their own fruit, happy, mother fucking happy.  Happy.
My heart is not happy.

So what.
Fuck you.

Yeah. Fuck you too.