but is incest best? (how nice)

what a thing, to have
within my grasp:
you, so dear to me--
your actions, your words.

what a sight to be heard--
how many times have you fled, now;
how many
times have you died
inside my head? how
many times have I
(fortuitous brother, wife unmarred
[and unnamed, forever scarred, unladen
of/with your fearful perfections])
died, to be reborn

in a blacker ash, in a
less conspicuous dust?

why does the glass of our glossolalia
burn with undue corpulence, o
why o why.

how may we make the conjunct of "us" right?
how may we lay-- side-by-side, in
sighing asym-metry, may we
share thoughts,

opine
upon

beats, arpeggiated chords, and
dischordant screaming, bleeding
vocal
chords, and
quiescent melodies;
snare-hits, tom-
whalloping, galloping beats
beats
beats
beats?

does the strum of the guitar thrum
thrum
thrum
thrum with uncalloused
abandon, sickly-reckless
(cantankerous) soul-
punching, dual-amp-crunching
grungefueled postpunk dooms
and seraphim-sucksiphoned
gloriffic stories?

inside your wholeheart?

can we talk, can we talk--

or are you with the gods, now;
are you the deists'
maker of clocks;
does the time tick away

without you?