opus elsemore
a tribute to my buddy elsemore and a riff off a (fabulous) billy collins poem called--i think-- liturgy. the numerous illusions are intentional, not just plagery.
opus elsemore
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i am stephen.
here me roar.
i sing the body ecstatic.
solar-powered.
bright and juicy. perfect.
i am the wine, and i am the goblet.
lalique. oblique. sublime.
i am the knife,
the swiss army one,
and the leatherman.
i have every attachment
you could possibly need.
and yes, i am the pine-scented air.
i am absolutely the pine-scented air.
my legs are alabaster columns,
leading to the field of lilies.
my nipples each are perfect universes.
i am the rose of sharon,
and also of simon.
i am pretty much an overall bouquet.
when i laugh, babies are
born, smiling babies with skin
the color of tea and milk.
when i cry, diamonds fall.
my mouth holds ivory chiclets,
my tongue forms words
in a language the rest of
the world always knew,
yet is just beginning
to understand.
when i sing, emerging nations
erupt into spontaneous
peace. when i dance,
narcissus and tulips, in
every revlon majesty,
spring from the furrows
left by my feet.
did i mention my alabaster legs?
and that i am, for sure,
the pine-scented air?
i am stephen.
the cup, the army knife.
and fuck yes.
the pine-scented air.
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