IT COULD BE LIKE AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL EXCEPT MORE BANANAS

so we clang our pieces
in various configurations
until there is a damaging act,
write big tall red words
until we're all old men
scribbling suggestive asterisks

i can't look long because each of your
eyes is a world ending
and i sense the tiny purple spider
veins underneath and they are
heavy soft lightning over an oil-slick
ocean that's rising in my lungs

this is why i maybe want to
stab myself with needles
til i'm a raw lymph skid,
just to eat up the dark dynamo
skulking in the gutters
i just can't exist always as a
narration of placid consequence

but it's okay because
sometimes i remember
that i am going to die
  all the leaves are brown
  and the sky is gray
i am diplomatically refusing
to be one of the drowners

i'll try to stop coveting your colors
leech them all up and SING