Meditation on a Lamp’s Reflection

Sandpaper tin reflection
Alternate lines of age and waves
From what optical cauldron,
	of cold correlative connection,
Three sisters of sanitary sane wage can weigh.

Drums do disrupt the aural presentation,
particle collision,
Of tan ten point game (Blood trickles
		like from a spout to
		funeral cup
	Or black and blue Jack genteel,
		In thee ruined
				ashy
		sometime buried, brazen,
				cordial waveweepy
					poorchild
						(Will never
						know skill
					vicious, venereal,
					tornado, flaccid,
						and Always Divorcing
Luck.

This is a game.
Surely looking it the direct opposite of
	something.
Fire Smell,
	Angry Open Mouth
			(Cavity: another poem
					another time
			But a solid memory:
					Your lips that
				some... times,
I may convince my infertile soul,
	Is just the rancid battery acid
					burning, bitter,
						base
					of my own desire to control,
But surely I hallucinate.
The drugs will always be my friends on
	the battered bow of my brow
	bucking and baying in the balkan wind
		where memory as a function
			is an afterthought
				and thus
					col
					lapse
					s on 
						its
							elf.
And Carol once told me,
	(Or did she show me?
		(Was it	Discourse
				or
				Intercourse?
That cards and chips, drugs
					and die
Do not make the casino spin,
	the doors invisible / dividable,
		the theory, obviously
				Gestalt,
					but obviously Everyone's
								Mine ('s),
Are ineffable.
	Sure
As you blow cornered cat kisses
	into hands that only
	Self-Pleasure
The only coin could possibly
				erupt 
			would be
		Self
Love / Digsust.

"Face it, Carol,
This could go either way."

The felt is actually a mirror
	and the world is green,

The mirrors you sing into aren't
	conduits
of vanity
		but portholes
			peering headlong into
Hell
	is what you make it
is the constant perversion of the inverted
is the correct answer
is reality unwrapped
is rejection
is hope and dreams
is what you finally decide
is the color of
		your home
		your child's eyes
	the color of your lover's
		skin.
is Charron's copper paddle.

"Carol, this can go one of two ways."

Have you ever crossed a river?
	is my response.

Luck.

He guides you,
	tells you cooly:
		stroke
		roll
		live
		love, Ha
	just Hope.

Luck.

	He'll be here to hold your
			hair back as vomit
		erupts from your teeth,
	but those lucky fucking teeth
			violent
	But,		Fucking
				is
					Like
						Melting
							Butter, Mister.

Only a buck fifty a stick,
	Useless when its hard, Ha
	But, Don't

Worry

now, it'll melt soon enough
	Then,
		you can worry about
		what you'll be baking, boy.

The room's spinning
	there are no reflections here
	but rice paper walls
	with violent shafts of
	blue gloom screaming
	Through.
	
Here it comes again,
	Again
		the hand is shook
	And,

You're hearing colors.

"There are other things in life like butter, Carol."

Does it stick on the wallpaper,
	like melting glass
		marching on their backs
			similar to tears
				but slicing furrows
					into 
				The Wallpaper
And drip down in shots of deep run blood
Everytime you manage to remember a thought

	Spray starch is your Mother
		ironing her wallet.

	Sylvester drooling spittle like the Sirens'
		eternal wail
		is dementia at seven.

You began young and look where
	it dropped you off,

Ass bleeding,
	bazooka joe, melted chocolate and
	semen smashed silly
	into your toothless twist of a
		smile.

"Listen Carol, I don't think this is going to work out."

You never win.

Snakes don't have synesthesia
when you close 
	your eyes
		and scream,
		until you scream.

The Siren's Eternal...
	What was it?

A cackle?
A dream?
	did it echo?
	did it shoot craps
		and loose sleep?
A bible?
A book?
even A page?
A page of music?

That's It!

"Carol, sing that song again.

"And, Carol?"

"Don't ever stop singing."