Always this dark, this sleek, oh switch-
back, switchable, unchanging
changeling, sometimes the strange
things go down. When people talk
about God, I know what they mean:
vaulted, volted, sweet-talked
by the Great Black Unseen—
Radio, Radio, caress me
with end parts, all the bits that make
my heart go bang
the tin clang of pots and pans
the spark of ancient history,
that was 14 billion years ago
or more, forget it ever was
the buzz of broken stars is busting
through to take me out, tonight,
without a stitch to wear
the static makes a halo
of my hair. The radio is a boy, a beautiful,
broken-star, a bastard hellbent
on fuckery and fame and I love him
I love him, where he goes
I’ll follow, now talk to me, baby, talk
to me, tell me my name.
The Radio Is A Boy