55- holy the bop apocalypse

i have your dreams and your teeth marks
(what is a body but a toy?)
and yet you will weep and know why.
       Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven
these fragments i have shored against my ruin.
            (burning burning burning burning)
            (what peaches and what penumbras)

petals on a wet, black bough
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection
                 to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
out of the sheer lust of adventure--
                 (Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!)

misremembered who i am
wasn't i there?
(my mother is a fish.)
now i am become death, the destroyer of worlds
now we are all sons of bitches