the Haunting

The haunting wouldn't give it up
and loves the apoplectic pleasures
that dealing with blows and near misses
gives; in the being a vessel
of endings and of continuances too.

Maybe this new veteran who's young
and whose long sinews hadn't had
a chance to relax, yet; is dead.
Maybe his bestubbled grinning visage
is what carries the scent and dismisses it.

Continuing

If just one thing should let me be, let it be this.
That unruly mop of dark strands that top
your head remain on the heads of everyone;
and mine too, is halfway between you and this
and never has been or will be enough.

The makeover's broken; madeover nothing
but the travails that change by themselves. Sing
they will or have in discontentment and alertion
that "he is wearing the same exact shoes that X wore;
this doesn't mean anything. Pay closer attention!"

In the wind, I was caught up in the downturn. A
microburst of a life that really had no idea what it was
but lived often. Lived fantastically even.

Fashion Model

What kills is that what replaced is more ambiguous,
what commonality feigned, what legibility lessened
by the method of expression. Two tits, tantalizing.
And one old scrotum laced with healed lacerations,
crinkled as a brain is, and (if ever wasn't) the pubis.

Even what is desirable derides us. Even the three
expressions, expressed here in concert, "how is the same
face thrice differently?" What is not being paid attention to?
The nipples, are perfect. Acting exactly the ways
that two nipples should & you're jaunty, fashion model.