Man is raving
on the outskirts
of intelligence

but sits with himself,
paints vanishing gods
on blank minds,
Robert Rauschenbergish;
equally fond
of his German pencil sharpener
and his Italian wife,
all mirrors
but the covered up ones
looking straight at him

Man's synapses light up and dwindle,
like 19th century ship lanterns
or white gulls
in dark nights
over the sea

Under x-ray
man looks like a scorpion

When he goes out
through one door,
he comes in
through another

That's the universe

All cuddling
is just to shy away
from the crude and unavoidable;
a sprinkle of semen
is the key to new unavoidables

Stumbling
between presumptions and afterglows,
no one at ease,
anything to fulfil,
foreigners looking for something to think,
the vast majorities heaving with the swell,
acting as if nothing,
so be neat and clean;
death is a tramp with honor

See yourself move past
in the lacquer of sports cars