i met you under the meter-block
with madness in my head—
you pulled out— my spinal cord,
you thought, you asked, i said.
love comes down, i guess,
to this: the ramones and black mornings,
your hand in the mooring,
my chemise and semen
in the painting, the submissions—
a literary edition of two people
living nicely, the prague-paris
split: we’ll have sex
and call it art; i’m not insane,
darling, when i’m with you.
poem: pornographic europa
the last pavilion 