smells like national spirit

while you shed agitated gaze in my direction you might forestall gigantism in sinister inception

I’ve heard tell ebullience is a lie waiting to be spoken

that plasticity burnt should be bottled or broken

whether uncorked or dismembered

twisted heads can only be glued once you’ve hopelessly severed every vessel they shared

and I read somewhere that a blind spot is the surest sign of a vision repaired

try it yourself:

install a gouged eye in some socket and dare it to stare back

or look at it this way: it’s not your singing, it’s your song that I lack

while your microphone is such a lover of milky white

its cardoid heart pounding like sixty slavers itching for a fight

when you gift wrap your lip around it

slip into your mouth, through earshot and out of sight

that’s when I see between each thump of your blood pump there are echoes three

of a chamber you’ve given up to bravery

a hallway to ambition

and a guestroom you’ve unlocked for me