My Howl

I'm afraid of touching its crumbling pages
its soft dog eared folds
its a valuable relic
its old
its old
my soul twisted like a rope,
of miniscule springs
that spring in its spine
its mine
its mine
that little orgasm of textual destiny is mine
how lovingly i have upturned its face
each unreal black and white
my saliva leaving traces of ownership
every single time
i have drowned it in my nights
of lonely blank headaches
I have swum it with me through
the channels of yellow mediocre light
i have tied it to my throat of slow breathing spite
and always it has been my lover
never out of sight
it contorts with the humid rustle of
rain upon its sleeve
it shrivels like wet fingers
soaked overnight in sleep
And ah, this urchin tome
such a beggar for lack of clothes
my only
my only
Its an only thing
on my days unending
lying in wait patiently
Lying in cupboards
drawers
boxes
small
tall
boxes
cold boxes,
boxes with mold boxes
on the threshold
of being evicted from their homes
And yet it smells like
the sweat from my hands
like some reclusive tea
and maybe some smoke on command
from the bloke
who came with packages and the draft
of such and such things
Some obscure evening
Ah my love
my gray scaled God
king
dictator
My independent song
You are the last of your kind
Loosened and stroked by fingernails and palms
opened and touched by fingernails and palms
held naked indignant by fingernails and palms
and yet
yet
yet
you are my Madonna
voodoo black
and virginal white.