battered shins

battered shins

and you with your John Lennon glasses
(pick between your teeth.)
a phonographic needle of the brain
bop shu bop bop.

and me Miss Mercy Blue Eyes,
cold and comforted in this
spiralling delirium—we are the same.
and I sing to you, the chords and words
locked in my head.

cradle that guitar till the end of days,
intonation of Domesday in your arias–
sickness and dread. one day, they may
acknowledge your quetzal-green robes.

I lay here—naked, chest
caved open, smoke altered myopia;
grey ringlets in my evolution of nature.
All the while it grooves and twines
in my ears: bop shu bop bop.