Ivan Pentchoukov

And at night

The brilliant necrocity of a black tree in wintertime, sodden over, and rigid as a malicious climax embrace, leering down its own shoelaces, scanning the wire structures of the passerbies, forgetful of leaves and berries, and thinking only, if only I could thrust, and thinking only, fuck you, wind, thinking only as far as a neuron can work in shitass cold, a process description on power down, a reader head scraping the tracks, complaining, and at night, when the lights warm its shoulders, and dogs piss and corrode its roots, and teenagers break bottles on its lips, and grandmothers and priests staring at it and seeing only cock, at night, when the lights warm his shoulders, there is a tad of universe weaving through his branches, an airplane, a star, god’s wad of cum, an apple, a diode, and each branch holds still to let weaving weave, all code streaming to a bit of processor, soul, carapace, cavity, and thinking only, hold it, hold it tight, a deluge of nothing, all piss gone to hell, and a kid with his back to the bark, Quentin, eating a sweaty pickle with his right hand.