They are the true punks, darkness-
shoved onto this blue,
intractable plaque. Distances
rouse, High Priestess-
like. Eucalyptus forks grow.
Kree and beak-furrow.
I press stiff little fingers to
brows. More angelic upstarts arc
through steaminess, catch
seldom hidden revolve. Mouthfuls
of seed. A beastie-boy’s shadows.
The homosexuals somewhere else.
Voices on the air.
Claws dissolve hair,
cousins merely half-unpeel
Misfits, he and I
dragged the Atlantic—sea’s
ivory, sea’s gilt. An undivided cry—
the damned wall
against I, time’s arrow
tapers and flies,
the rivals, we drive
abrasive wheels, black flag’s red
knuckle dusting the mourning.
note: a terminal from Sylvia Plath’s ‘Ariel’