stillfugue

Muddling through tar-faced crashes,
frozen, wrapped with paralyzed skin.

If the luck plows gracefully into me,
one of them smashes into my jail.
She smiles huge, her fingers dance
on my face and inject high-speed love.
Oh, the unexplainable thrust of joy!

They swing on delicate, perfect legs,
their fingers smothering me in green,
plush, sweet jelly and bandages of milk.

Their arms wind and wrap smoothly
around my head millions of times.
Millions of assurances of permanence.

Bubbles of my blood tell me it is okay.
Sizzling threads of my shirt say, king,
go wrap yourself with their bodies
and dine in the sweetest nectars.

My angels arch their backs and
their necks are the smoothest fur.
Their eyes sprinkle grains of love.

The sieve sweeps softy  through
the gray of my mind, blubber lightens,
it starts to float and starts to charge
my frame with bolts of fused
shaking strokes from Picasso’s
brush, pulling all of the fog
deep into the fabricated carpet.

Losing faith in my god, I believe
in restoration for everyone save me,
but do not tell me angels aren’t
from the most special god.

My angels give me sparse,
brief moments of pure elation,
pure love, and without these
very brief moments, I would
have been gone long ago.

I want my angels with me,
wrapped around me with slick
juices protecting me from the
world forever, but my angels
are busy with chaos, fixing other
failures as heavily as they do me.

So my only wish is for these brief
moments to allow me to live.
Please, my angels, help me smile,
help me breathe, help me go slowly
in love.  Breathe slowly in love.