Musicbox Of Ants

When the edges that snap light back together behind your eye feel stolen from the very music box you've managed solid out of so many pits and something parts,
You begin to think about how realistic it is to go through with this sort of reflection
And continue fashioning song from your peeling teeth and flecking fingertips.

This is how we force open pores of housebreak at the big blood sound of our regular music.
Or word how gross and certain is a pulse?
Or perhaps we skin an arm down to the soft spot in our bedroom's tit,
Grey with white wrap to blank magazines
And an end quote.

These men were soft.
Soft like gorged mice
Beached atop a heap of manure-rich soil
In a field of seeing-eye corn.
Soft as pray
Or wet chalk would be.
Sensitive to...
Sensitive to the snapping clasps of little clip-shut boxes cute for keeping teeth
Who'd rattle like broke hands inside their now more spacious skin.
They'd talk extra loud on phones to fathers,
Hang up,
And stare deserted at the music they would make somewhere in all the half-hours of after.

Soon,
The half-shape of an ape dents a bag of feathers.
Leaving their heads soft-fossil in pillow,
Left warming back to normal in the several size of sun.
(As it begins its set.
Continuing the cuisine that cells digest between raw eggs and dirt ends,
With nothing but beds holding their place in either direction.)

Speaking of the future in captions:
These are the gauze that working women's hands place on clean tongues of child kings.
Sending something they would never suffer their own stomachs
Tumbling past those toddler tonsils
Like reverse footage of the busy human ovary at work.

There are some things one can claim as a unicorn horn.
The genuine article.
From the dead bird in the elevator
To the soft single proofs on the gone floor of six months.
Obvious and buried are the kinds of scars good guys can get away with.
'Til they're alone in their Antarctica's respectively.
With the fire in their teeth and all its reaching nerves not keeping quiet.

You can make a music for the endless purge of children turning seventeen
And its simple straights of money.
Or the million, billion things of hate.

I have no arm for life outside the movies.
For the necessary dead-heading of customers.
This is, with a key, no tricks of trade to blow a kiss at the audience with.
No king's ransom to blow a few sizzle kiss up the audience with.
No highest hat to blow the winter off songs toward audience.