Make love to me Tchaikovsky


Seduce your Brahms, and make love to me Tchaikovsky.

It isn't enough to play the wood or brass alone;

let's sensuate the old bones; give them a tickle.


Lay Bach, unravel, take off in flight along the French Horn

and triangle. Orchestrate those hands, white-gloved

through wind and string, and compose me.





Hereís where the drainage takes

away. Wants to be in Edinburgh

or Sydney, or somewhere else;

dimmed in porcelain.


That rim was forged by split foams,

washed hands, wet faces. But this

coriolus wonít let us leave.

And now Iím stocked up


with old brushes, empty tubes

whispering each stroke half lisped;

conversations of the nights to come

as we wash, and spit.



My Mother's Sclera


My mother's sclera is the same as mine.

Its white reminds:

this is how we see, and how we're seen


through optic pen displays

and canvas views.

And when looking closely,

the doctor and the poet will tell you the same:


Our vessels have shades

of how we're made.



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