Jesus H. Christ Does Private Dancing

  There are, he begins, smoothly turning and, his locks turning, turning the lock at the door, three rules. No kissing. Don’t touch me anywhere I don’t move your hands myself. Keep your doubt in your pants. His head ticks toward a maraschino eye in the corner near the ceiling making known our names are already beautifully inscribed in a review copy shipped by glacier. He begins by igniting one slow revolution face rolling into benthic night, nothing fettering some calendrical display but reappearing luminous spun wine barely held by glass, uncoiling of the room itself, himself in each of the four walls’ full mirrors and those mirrors’ rooms and the mirrors of those rooms’ walls. He is dangerously close to perpetuity but he begins, after a start to slink out of dispassion, my reckless question about his true nature like a sparrow quivering between his lips: Four rules. What begins as beauty doesn’t fade but crumbles leprously, the tip of a nose used to being beautiful Pinocchioes beyond recovery. Its roots let go. Firm brown original replaces. Look again at the paper doll chain, mid-spin, read around the back of his crowns his faces’ quick ebb to their induction of lust. When someone muddles the trick, you let it go and he has, mercifully, let go my unknowing what comes into this room, killed for what comes out. He begins at insinuations, hard wax onto flexing fingers or scales bricking eyes a few bits of cloth flicking between the floor and his skin and then the weight of straddling thighs our chins’ nocturnal ivies roping his mane eclipsing blood too spun with drink to do a damned thing. The world is full of women I have wanted to without knowing what infinitives. Ladybugs of hope in the cobweb of assurances somewhere they sabre champagne bottles, speak ribald fire as if they could eat young, marry beautiful warhorses to bedposts with ribbons. Weavers weep into grim carpets. Poor market but they knew he was unfairly beautiful. Gulls screech a sermon of remainders, molluscs rocketing down from a melting blue ceiling till the jetty’s sweet the quay sun-flared like Lighthouse of Alexandria debris. Then we were back along the archipelago of bars M and I, ferrying between stations of the piss-up when I saw him in street clothes, he me two unknown unknowns. The gulls screeched burn burn again, then again, but I only had to look away once and there were no tears. M and I kept walking after Cuba St. It was dark and alive, only she was far too good. Waves nothing, only the summed blue sidewalk is enough to call the sea beautiful.