This form of life needs sex,
this form of sex needs death.

Begone with need, silly saints:
All forms of need go grey!

All melting, all ragged nails
psychosis-wrought children
with fumble-fingered attempts at longing...
their form of need goes grey.

So happens to the sunset!
So happens to our swallowed earth!
Their form of need goes grey!

All frontal lobes floating,
many minds passing out
many birdbones clatter and rattle
as knees strike-floor strike-mouth strike-words.

And aching eyes roll forwards!
However many hours
left behind to dustsoak bugsoak minds
which once was fine, now drawn in wine
and bile on the bathroom floor-
like all the others,
being unique.

The beastial and parochial
live like brothers,
fuck like lovers.
Let the fuckers fuck, I say-
As all the others
their form of need goes grey!

And dissipates,
reigning as the sated become indulgent,
the starved become the superb.
Each and every form and function
reduced to simple calcareous curios
head in a jar,
bones on display!

Wired up like lab-rat ambition
and too-much-coffee ramblings

It's true: all these forms of need go grey.

05/23/2010

Author's Note: About a year ago, a poet and good friend of mine wrote a riff on Allen Ginsberg's "This form of life needs sex" that I considered a beautiful portrait of our lives at the time. Six months later, his lover wrote a continuance on that which included the line "this form of sex needs death." I would like to think this is the next piece of a chain.

Posted on 05/24/2010
Copyright © 2024 Madeline Lamb