The obsession of my nights is crucified on my eyelids
like a hang-glider sailing off on a thermal above the maroon desert,
similar to drifting any of my desires around a crowded room
to see if I can attract a woman simply by outrageous
but unpronounced temptations . . . something so primal
only a panther might think to commit them.

This obsession gives me a certain appearance,
a heavy-lidded lust, a whisper of lunacy;
I can make a cigarette appear the same way as my eyes, you know,
and this is the true skill with my mouth -- bending inanimate objects
to make them symbols of my own disregard.

Really, it’s easier to bend people . . .
especially women who already aspire towards
readily malleable shapes, something like the way chrome
bumpers wrap around throbbing engines . . . to mimic
sunglasses which encompass gum-chewing blonde, male heads
ready to gnash down on silver breasts as if these foldable
women could actually show us the way out of ourselves.

Throb . . . this is what the throbbing is all about . . .
a revelation of the way out, and all the bending I would think to do
is simply aimed at attaining an adequate way to escape,
but just as I achieved the proper rejection, an abrupt car ended my life . . .
and now I weary the feeling that fate or whimsy wasted me.