My Spaz

I always look better next to my spaz
All kinds of junk
A nerve, senselessly oleaginous
Riddled to ribbon
It was not a thought for a long while, to separate
Through kicked up dust with the blood

Shot through with electricity, sweat, with blood
Such sudden pain, groped egos, from the spaz
Shake, slip, misunderstand—multiple and separate
A pathetic display of junk—
tangled ribbon,
oleaginous

It is that that—shake, jump, slip. When oleaginous
Upside down blood
Plug in electric blue ribbon
Make her go, my spaz
“Shut up, Junk!”
But it’s too late—sense separate

Oh, but the painmortification. Oh, but the sense, separate
receipt of response. Some oleaginous
My face, a composition of painlines, fear, embarrassed junk
My drained, manhandled blood
Inside fire doused by stoking through no oxygen; spaz
Everything discredited. Everything choked in gutflavored ribbon

Bent through sappy, food-drenched satin and knot-on knotted ribbon
Where does sex and calm separate?
Ego shoved out—handed about by my spaz—
expecting (at least) ambivalence and oleaginous,
expecting (at most) fortified, orgasmic blood,
always returning: a piece of junk

Always returned as junk
a Parsifalian hunt, overlooked, wrapped in ribbon
shot through my blood
I asked her to separate
Never—to her—oleaginous
I add, “Stay next to me, my spaz.”

Junk will separate
following ribbon, fie on oleaginous!
Blood warm, always with my spaz