A Report Upon the Consumption of Myself

I am a panther, corked out and bellowing in cement walls
And I'm angry at blue evenings without ventilators
And I'm angry with you
And it will come like a rose
It will come like a man walking through fire
It will chime like an unseen trumpet in a trunk
The eyes will smell like sausages,
The feet will have small propellers
And I will hold you in Bayonne
And the sailors will smile
And my heart, like something cut away from cancer will feel and beat again
Feel and beat again
But now, the blue evening is cinched like old muskets and the dangling sex rope hangs
As the tree stands up and calls "July"

And the dust of hope in the bottom of paper cups along with small spiders that have names like ancient European cities
Cuckoo spit and dross; heavy wheels
Oil wells stuck between fish and sucking up grey grass of love
And the palms up on the cliff waving, waving in the warm yellow light
As I walk into a drug store to buy toothpaste, rubbers, photographs of frogs, a copy of the latest Consumer Reports (50 cents)
For I consume and I am consumed
And would like to know on this blue evening,
Just which razor blade it would be best for me to use
Or maybe I could get a station wagon, or buy a stereo-receiver, a movie camera
Say, 8mm under fifty-five dollars or an electric frying pan
Like the silver head of some god-thing after they dropped the bomb BANG!
And the grass gives up and love is a shadow
And love is a fishtail waving through knits of thread that seem-
Eyes, but are only what’s left of me on the last evening after the bands have suicided out
The carnival has left town and they’ve blown up the Y.W.C.A. like a giant balloon
And sent it out to sea full of screaming, lovely, lonely, girls