In the movie, countless bodies unbutton
their shirt for the wild mind of god
and jealous tourists burn to enter her narrow heart or hole
men dressed as men are genius own
the daylight on their face
the naked women keep me empty
undo it all after some sleep

The men play pinball & hide from each other
a drunk look ripples across someone’s face
& I hope for a broken bottle
so I can move at the sound
just like a spider
I try to find answers to how does it feel
the men laugh loudly
saying a word or two about their mothers
then they look into the glass that sucks them
I’ve also stopped caring about my mistakes
having walked toward the thing I want
& then passed it.
The men are big and handsome here
I wish I could love them
I let the thought move through me
I understand it is a lie

High school boys were here
they are real and they broke bottles
Lulu gets close to the ground
she gives up thinking  rides her Feelings
she is sick of being gentle
& the glass smells like flowers
Lulu wants to be the high school boys
they walk around at night
mouths slightly open knowing
something sweet will fall in
high school boys are hope
she blushes
she’s so embarrassed

the cold slides around  she turns it into milk
a girl will brush her teeth before drowning
waiting for the horizon she’s imagining things again
bending the light because it makes her angry
nobody knows how delicate she is
she closes her eyes to observe the orchard
a spotlight buzzing after her own neck she can’t talk
unless it’s scripted   she takes a bath instead

When I walk into a room I often forget I am walking into a room. When I look at your face I try to misremember the details. Let me restate this thought while on my knees: Toward you I am surrounded by troubles, later becoming a system of intricate diagnoses. You tell me I am not dying while watching me clearly die. Stop being dramatic, restate this thought while walking sideways into the room; stand on hind legs, go deeper, Goldie, dance, beg your way inside. Maybe I am too demanding against this hot bolt of pain. Tomorrow will be beautiful, he says, so I kill the beauty before it arrives. Will I ever come? Do I care. If I don’t care is that a problem. I never come. It isn’t a problem. I am less alone after I give up. Restate this thought and surrender. She thinks she is holding my neck but really I am the river and the river is spilling out of my body. She has my mother’s name, is Russian - but when she says she can fix me, I believe her. I’ve had enough psychology, says my heart, who is perpetually searching for a good fuck. Find nothing and make it god again, she says. It is too cold in this room, my lower back hurts.