Slowcore Pornography
He says I’ll find him where the oil refineries meet the sea,
where the black houses burn down to a pure black landscape
and a serious lack of courage. He says that verily my children will fill
the dollhouse, my muscles shall quake with their candlelight. I feel
the dead. I feel the girth
of the museum. I need
rare and exquisite. I need
stabbed through a red
curtain. I need where oil refineries meet the sea, frozen.
Burning through a black horse like a sheet of paper,
I need the sea. I need the dead. Detectives’ blood colors the field’s
mind. It worries. If it could think, it’d think behind the glass-framed
portraits of young men,
needing little. Marble
cattle fill the dollhouse
pastures. Their legs rot
right out of their skulls. That is their payment. We are expensive and vast
like empire, darling. We are quite gone. We assure you there is no such thing
as statues—only ghosts on the raw brown turf. So may this landmark
fill your body, my darling. May I take your glassy eyes in mine. May there be
shame upon it all.
