On a roof with no hands
my voice mistakes me for a hive of consents
a high pitch calling on the chants of the young.
The butcher’s sky drips blood.
My exaggeration paints the clouds.
I lay claim to a brooding ground of wishes.
Held tight, eyes pop out of my veins.
A man hung with tears
arrives through a window, leaves by the door
I make for him a box of laughter,
as smooth as the teeth between his ears.
My temples beat. His echoes have echoes.
The world outside is multiplied by traffic.
Within, the angels boast faces and names.
Eyelashes approach from a closeted mirage.
So this is Babylon, alive and well
and living in my kitchen.
It is two men with barely a bride between them.
Andrej Bivlovsky (he / him) is a poet and performance artist. Former editor of Masculine-Feminine and Kapesnik. His poetry can be found at the Quiver and Down in The Dirt.