The Final Countdown

Chris Hosea

It was behind that
frozen dispersing scene the last
in her gut she knew
light curved laughter it was light
compared to sins
head on they were too
distressing to habit
supposedly puncture-proof
and misunderstood the majority
perhaps were believers themselves
their scorn for nerds
the only true way
to avoid recurrent headaches
back into hatches with luggage
your delicate language of limbs
pretending sleep while
mooning at the moon and I drove
roads at least wouldn’t run out nor woods
before the countdown piped up
in tones of an anthem
easier to sing and older than the real
the weather stopped happening
anymore anymore or more
became an unchanging alarm
to say there were cars and thus people
all atmospheres closed like the lips
a horror quilt stitched
for a precious museum
its staff so obsessed with wall texts
I put in time myself
for being invisible to my own thoughts
unlocking a gate in a well that led to stars
making myself dark hard and mean
turning off the cell phone
for good that time
that moment in prisoner when
you decide if they will ever find you
knowing you can’t
avoid being part of the plot
either way some filigree
on a frame cracking
a smile to break up lineage
confuse words of generosity
with words of aggression
buying up misunderstood spaces
of cleverness and love
the clever spicing the love
so that inside the reader a beloved place
hurts the heart is sprained
and worse considered a mere machine
responsive to blunt attacks hurtful words
cartoon lovers don moon boots
and the lip of space
is brought curbside
we are of it and in it already
for good and more perhaps for worse
hurtling ourselves
at targets we implode
such that the simple time taken
to read a text message
requires you build
Wonder Woman’s plane
or diorama hairless girl and all
in your arms the liquid scent of sex
is an acid destroying systems
these repeated attacks
may worsen the conditions
so we grow to hate each
other and ourselves
well imagine it is the two of us
fucking reader
jealous of the short half
hour of fucking
joining our parts
hiding revolutions in each other
to do good or hurt less
I slide under you and lick your asshole
because I love your asshole
that is a fact at least
g force spins a fresh globe
out of this one we roll
as if suspended airless
on and under fingers
in my or your hair brains
blending just humming energies
each time and then again
our natural disinclination to
fuck me
the good excuses
little deceptions
make vacuums bloom
fishtails scatter time
make it drizzle from our parts again
all down the floor the bed clothes
so we don’t know much
longer who we are
we are locked in it
kicked out into the ether
kissing just from repetition
exploding corpses in the sun
get under me and come
again spring comes
hurting the small flowers
rashes and smells
the old manure
that reminds you of nature’s business
even rocks sweating
iron as much a part of
and something someone is sucking
you on the internet
and I’m licking your other teat
those automated words aim
both inflate and pop a bag
filled with gases hasten us
make our voices tiny precious
scary vicious how
you can say anything
when you’ve sucked a balloon
the smallest put down now so cute
it is acceptable for you to be
thinking of him while you take me faster
what joins us stretching giving
who doesn’t because there isn’t just one
of him or one of me or you
in this many universes
or one pussy one cock
so many millions
inhaling exhaling there is less
air now it is become a grip