too much heaven for a fault line & quaranteenies by Robert Kempton

too much heaven for a fault line

​spiked a motrin & sat waiting for the next Naples refresh,
aimed a fleshlight towards the heavens for some kind of inverted sign
as the statued woman tied a little noose with her purse
to avoid devotion from the pyramid of men
climbing over sisyphus like stolen sex positions 
imbued within their feet a journey and guys
I swear it was like pussy power FR

the dirt under her feet was wet with wine
and frustration, loitering weasels grew hungry
though their stomach calls could just be another sound
in the discordant nightmare of time, treaties b/t
them ran sacred with spit and though they drooled over
the silent ligatures running traces across her teeth there
was no difference once their saliva ate the floor

the beggars never age and their pockets, well
you know. it’s always starvation and chase in those deep street
corners that bundle rocks like foundations to endless
mountains of beauty and wealth
and poor neophyte wonder. cross-eyed and alighted
by the switchblade I forgot in my coat, I climb numbered stairs
to the hungover wet bones of Bowery
and stare out into the black moor, waiting for rain.​

quaranteenies

I

vaseline on my fists and
Purell in the palm of my hands

no longer a friend to touch just
another machination
waiting to be 
oiled and cleansed

II

windows of sun shards \breaking
fast the uncertain hours
like flocks of geese

here we are summer
or winter or
both, sunning
our pristine prayer cards
in a fresh pair of latex

III

by burning the phosphorous summer air
we have all undiscovered the need
to feel flesh