(Robert Rauschenberg, Winner Spinner, 2000.)


A radiating sun resurrected

from dissipating planets,

implicated guns in the water,

wiping cum off my tits,

at the ready,

the most beautiful women

you’ve ever seen;

my soul belongs

to the broken ones.


Power is an illusion,

power is a blacklight rose,

and is temporary.


All the ways I have

pictured you dying,

waiting like the elevator man,

holding the gardens of your life like 

old, old compositions.


Over the bridge,

you almost convinced me that

no decent woman

thinks these kinds of thoughts.


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