Purgatory Muscles

Apocatastasis for our
bookshelf, look! in
our greasy lofty mirrors:
Surf can see me flex pyramid thighs
and navel forced out of granite,
triangular carbon alloy,
right below something else thick
and full of rust and sand from the depths of
Damascus, harvested off the back of a
great breathing,
slobbering underground mess.
Sheathed sinews beneath purple retro-future
boardshorts bring about the angriest gay love since Rimbaud’s
cerebral nothing,
so I guess I’ll toss
‘em in the chimney pyre, these uncut books. A
brutal shadow stretches
tall from beneath my titan’s
feet, unable and unmovable,
muscle bound, heavy weight.
Immoral manuscripts abound around us
both, I think, and I haven’t
written a love poem in over
four grim years. But how
can
I write, and how can I
think, when all I really want are
six pack abs and
Muslim gold
around my
toes?

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