Poor cousin boneless!

That night was so loveless. As I remember: Pink static over the cul-de-sac,

trophies metastasizing behind glass, animatronic waiters in vivisection,

and not even the lower halves of adults waistdown to watch over a thing. 

The nightfood appears and is evil and white. You’d eat the lasers around a crystal

at this point - but law here is sin, a pigment, which is in the daft moon

and the dogcatcher and the donut, turning in its display case.

And the cankerous boys.

It is said you’re a boy. You’re curious about this, and leave

your white socks on the shag carpet, say little prayers beneath the poster

of the purple guitar.  The puberty of the second dimension

and its aisles upon aisles of crummy asphodel:

Your brother’s coming home from Argentina.

Your brother’s coming home from the Alpine slopes.

Your oldest brother, he worked on a rig, your megalophobic heart

In practice, always for him. This is what you pull on, like the trail

of tokens from a mechanical rat: highscore me, I believe I’m in heaven!

Then the night re-sets; you forget the sight of a dog

but never the sound.

You won a waterbed, I remember. I could leave you there with your luck up

full of that sherbet moon, that doggy laughter

and a lilac wash of heads all staggered within you. 

Is it so crooked to dream of an ending?