Open Air Modern

Live temporarily

slide through

a relationship characterized

by geometric glass

horizontal planes

this is the city

Los Angeles, L.A.

shadows transpose

from one room to another

It’s simple, when our

relationship isn’t working

that’s when we should get married

Mirrors at right angles

double the space

Transparent door

coast it open again

and again

God, there’s nothing I love more

than a good reenactment

my tongue in my mouth

an actor in its own right

Don’t you love to

watch me do it

***

I put my diamond in the safety deposit

signed the papers

Now if only you’d read the part

I’d love to slur my lines

***

press open air

against collision

channel chopper

to vibration

Give me back!

the vodka dish! in a den of feather

mongolian pink, grab

by the root

accelerate

into soft ostrich

When I lunge, I lunge

never ceasing scream

into the conversation pit

Like how can you capture

a shape without edges

when there’s been

a night without ends

It was premeditated you know,

he came and

I swung hard

with the Hitachi

***

Acquitted brutality

luxuriously sunken

tongue rolling slowly

Of course marriages aren’t

about houses

they’re about asymmetry

flip one

for another

Downer-queen must’ve misplaced

that past psycho-web

of control

crystalline echoes

undecipherable in their

immediacy

I did imagine

all that glass

a water memory

Like, it’s all I ever wanted

flashing palm tree all you can shimmer

storm bent in neon sign flickering

enjoying cocktails

in voluptuous glasses

All of life is a coincidence, as planned you’ll see

At the window

your profile caught

like a threat

on air

go on, open up

slide on out

***

Hum of overhead airplane

in the soft garb of morning

recognizable from any window

as a scene from New York

mirror water and sky

an even bigger structure

going up

I put on a show

daily for neon vests

in names

I’ll never know

the constant tinkering

this facade requires

my tongue glides

round each structure

I come close then keep my distance

we all know no one knows

their neighbors

in such a design

***

Apartment lit by the

Williamsburg bridge

police lights bouncing

from a police boat

purple waves orange sky

Who’s to say what’s to become

a memory

and what’s

just gravitational

the moon pulls water toward it

how delicate

you’re here and

I’m still surging

to remember you

The Roses of Heliogabalus

An orgy  crushed alive

           by roses  fabrics falling    bodies

twisting as the room continues

filling petals pouring

I piss on the deck

and let the morning

come against my ass

Before dawn I was asexual

  we rub against glass

as the sun seems to suggest

everything can be porn &

we’ll know when the time is right


I raise my cup

in vibe calibration

a feast

 each course so

rose-flavored

it’s inedible


I renew my look at interludes

add an animatronic sparkle

let my thoughts transmit   in pigtails

so to better illustrate the sexual fantasy

of being a no-kill animal on a no-kill pasture

cared for by a no-kill farmer

our every request fulfilled

 

In continuous invention

we create a ritual

turn a zucchini into cock

our cock

    into a spiritual order

In secret instruction we uphold

this zucchini

    as chosen one

and piss on it

As our society’s export

 I’m offering used  whip-it canisters

    covered in lotion

        to roll-up-and-down

             a calf-thigh, thigh-calf

I love my bovine body

     working as little as possible

on the day of the parade


Roses cascade

  in volumes, pints, quarts, gallons

      and those above, lit from below, ask again:

 What if they don’t uphold

      our system of power?

The faces of the guests

           surprised,

                       bored,

                           entertained…

                               do nothing to alert

              we’re on the verge of suffocation…

We know the orgiasts will die

         in a pit of flowers and sweat

     but might the consequence of excess

                    & decadence not be disaster?

       would the party not have soaked the petals

ground by bodies          made fragrant with roses...

The jacuzzi tumbles purple

     illuminating some sector

the feast, the orgy, the waste

    finding in the fog, easy motherhood,

                in all we do

    we try to conjure a society

    but it's only tenet is

Piss on the deck

Not in the jacuzzi

     The sky mingles into foam

              the foam floats to the stars

                       and Satan reveals themself

                                   to have been God all along,

                      to have been Venus, the morning star,

             joke’s on you, clutching an orange,

in case you’re thirsty, or if you simply need,

   at this time, to feel its weight,

       roll over your body, which maybe,

                    right now, isn't’ so much

                                      of a wild guess


Rachel Rabbit White is a writer and performer doing the devil's work in New York City. She pens a weekly column at Garage/Vice about sex scenes in art, literature and film. Her twitter is @rabbitwhite https://twitter.com/rabbitwhite