Spiders, bodies lurching, ingesting other spiders in the hot lamplight. Ingesting flying insects, lunging. I want to hold your lovely with the history of my species. At the vibrating illuminated strings, hot and white. Vibrating metal roofs and vibrating wooden posts. I will make an honest animal of you with infrastructure. Holding up roofs and spider lines strung along the posts and under the roofs, vibrating, the insects blindly. We will touch each other, synesthesia with our proboscises. Lurching at the invisible felt forms of other insects. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

Words lunging at each other on a white sentence. On a bed of finely crushed bone powder, grinding. Words are sentences lunging at each other in dense white lamplit spaces. Saying themselves over and over. Urging the flesh circus onward, surging with sleights of light again and reacting and lunging. Words on a line of white light. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

A woman who doesn't speak English pointing at train signs. A silent film splayed out across a screen of phantasms. In her book. Lines of train cars arriving. Drunk German teenagers arriving with cases of beer and hollow- sounding enunciated words. The way I made you a perfect replica of my future self, panting. I am nervous. I try to sound out the words in my mind. I move as little as possible. I watch the woman's hand slide. Across my torso, detached and calm and my breathing is labored, laboring. Her train schedule. She isn't looking at me. She is concentrating on the numbers. Like a beastly perfection in unending montage 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

The number of spiders clinging to the metal roof is nauseating. The juice from the spider bellies might be dripping, or I am leaking like you never knew was possible in movies, but it might be air conditioning from the bathrooms in the station. Or it might be rain. It has been raining. The rain puddles on the roofs. It could be a throwback to the work ethic of Egyptians, we hieroglyphics. Spiders drowned in the rain. Spider juice in raindrops running down posts or running down my hair and face. Wearing the walls, with steadily increasing conviction A furry palm holding onto another face. You are cold. Don't look at the spiders. They are eating in front of everyone. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

We are eating ourselves in front of centuries, we beasties. Each strand of her hair is really insect eyes looking at me in thousands of different ways. An infinitesimal menagerie of minutiae. Each eye emotes. Each eye is a brain. Itself. Each eye cannot control each other eye. It is raining. Cold. Hold me. With the collective anger of the struck down of  your genus. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

Churches survived the bomb raids. A miracle? No, rudimentary radar for enemy fighters. Marks on the horizons. I am tattooing my sex on you with an archaic second set of teeth. Bomb magnets. The bells are wearing thin along the sides. The bombed out church is an emptied human skull. A vestigial affect, an effective demarcation between us. Or two sexy women wearing low cut sweaters. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

There is a fine line between holes and revelation. And the fields that we slash and burn in past epochs. Sitting is a nineteenth century invention. I bought a futon from Wal-Mart but I couldn't put it together in time. We are finding that the age is now one of slashing prices and flesh. Your beautiful unaccented voice must tell me everything. Barleywine tastes like the Elysian fields. Like our blood is the domain of trappist monks of Shitsville, USA. Of lightning bolts, unsticking. Or: our saliva is conducive. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

Please compose 5000 sentences immediately. Manifesto. To procreation in these parts. Beardo townie manifesto that is full of holes and doesn't matter anyway. Where we are full of holes, orifices. I wrote these poems on paper first. An exercise in taking shits and the excrement of each other in public restrooms. Form and formlessness are not existing qualities. My reminder is on your thorax, we are charming. They are degrees. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

A doctoral dissertation on the history of the instant replay. examples of insect fortitude. A doctoral dissertation on the history of self-deprecation. A doctoral dissertation. Examples of evolution and fucking. On the history of mass-market paperback novels. 
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                
                                                

I feel your products, sexy vending machine. We are losing limbs in the many holes of history. Like beautiful women in low-cut sweaters. I am watching your every gleaming smile. You are my insect queen named history Every poem is a mass market paperback novel waiting to happen. We are useless together.