long poem (draft), first part of sequence 3

They were playing a game: sun, moon, thoughts.

Sprinkling dust;
to feed the trees.

I am no good at climbing mountains.

Pinwheels. Heliocentrism.

Radiator problems.

The bishop is dead and his robes are webbed with
bits of discarded spiders.

The trains were found abandoned.

So: ungainliness.
She thought.

Stuffed animals floating
through space—

terms

from a medical dictionary.

You spent years raising animals
until you found out

nothing was worth it anymore.

Hit me in the face with
a leather belt;

I would have paid
for you to teach me karate.

Designing machines whose interiors are
blueprints of cities.

(Exhalation.)

Where will you be later
when ice crystals begin forming on the inside of our eyes?

I know that for years you’ve been dreaming
of gouging out your own face,

but never quite had the
nerve.

Imagine this image of an old car
suspended on strong cables above a gigantic mouth,

both of them about to fall.

It was fortunate.

I left part of myself in a jungle in Somalia
and spent months burning trees.

A Scandinavian prostitute.

He pierced the head of his dick
with a machine gun

and stabbed himself in the face
with a fishing hook.

Later we all posted videos on the internet.

I have this hobby of attending funerals
ritually, and without meaning to.

Every day I keep taking walks in the jungle.

I am a
conjurer

of fire.

They covered the body in leaves and

fed it to the god.

Alligators fucked the ground and worlds
were destroyed.