Twisting she didn’t want to show her face
Her American face drugged eyes unintelligible dialect
I only like noises that don’t mean anything the glow
From a early canter made everything incalculable
Her relaxed body her righteous curves
A headlong dance that challenges one to join in
Her image lingers beyond any single part, as that modern day minor divinity the Sex Symbol, surrendering herself on screen as you feel she would in life, tender, soft, sweet, willing, but somehow essentially melancholic, fallen from innocence, not knowing, even at the final moment of ecstasy, if she is desirable for her own self, or just for the spirit of lust she engenders, yet needing to experience, to create that desire, sucking it up like her life’s blood…
Yanny Chan
To tell the truth, it feels like we’re just waiting to die
Original Photo Credit…Anthony Kwan for The New York Times
Among the brambles
And implacable geometry
Of total information awareness
The atomic data needs improvement
Colliding breaking the standard model
Which ensues and unfolds inevitably
In real life even as it’s being written
Upright fucking in the doorway
I’m with her when the
Whole room turns sideways
Sliding through the window
And into another room
In which things are
Going in another direction
Or maybe two
Tumbling like a key
In the lock
Turning like the guts
Of a clock
Binding with the unbinding witch
Among carnal copulation and dealing
In wild dangerous comprehensions
A bit steep pretty heathen sort of goddess
At your service what are we waiting for
Induction Compression Combustion Exhaust
A Leak In The Safe 