C'est

Dread-locked darling, your hair a stairwell

For the clamber, dandy, c'est. I looked for 

This validation in any other place, came

Like Alice, here last. A picket fence frozen

Out of dead Jewish loins. Out of ash they

Couldn't tell from skin. C'est la seule façon. 

I, lacerated, bleed on three floors, cling to

Six doors, and knock down a widow with her ashes,

Before I roll my thumb up in my wound, and lass es los.

I confuse my tongues now. I make love with bomb drops,

Drop bombs when I am proposed to, down on one knee,

I shoot down graphic holy spit-fire, je ne peux pas tout faire. 

The mayor breaks at onions, in fields up to his waist,

I continue bleeding and urinating on his second hip,

The youth hath no respect for that which they boast.

One last time, je suis fait. I have nothing and everything

To give and choose to sweep the floors with my profanities,

Like a fairy god-mother, I wave, and un-die myself again.

The last time I died, I was a petal, like a failed metal,

I floundered like aquamarine without gills. Now I am fifty years

And a thousand, and I have wonderful gifts to give, not least of all to you.

The last time. The last man - c'est, c'est. And I remember,

Choking on a throat which blasphemed oxygen. An oesophagus 

Of rich, gold tissue, wondered dead.

 Everything I say is embodied by another. And I should've been

Glad, I could have been so froh. I am selfish. I want only

Myself, my rich velvet cake, and desire. In presuming

The three to be synonymous, I have written the poems

Speaking of the other people, les autres, die sehr nutzlos sind.

I remembered bleeding out. I was a watered flower.

Being stabbed was no feat. It was a dream, a little dream.

I have written it enough to be real, by now. I am watered in acne,

Not desires. I am not everything, but what will come to matter.

C'est, c'est.