this love of the dead
I look down your top every chance I get
as though the memory
might sustain me as though I might store it
as I fly into the Western Lands
when you are very old I will come
with still this need to fondle your chest
the streets of Cairo run with breasts
huge breasts roll on like zeppelins crushing
houses and those backstreet rooms that serve evil tea
the revolution hits like a wild black dancer whirling her breasts
a whip cracks because the tip breaks the sound barrier
these revolutionary breasts break the sound barrier
they are the god-tongues of huge lizards licking out
crushing with a sort of oomph all indecision
blood and alchemy leak from them
brass birds swoop shrieking loosing their breast feathers
like quarrels
you know what I mean?
everything dead all around
rising again their wings jerking like epilectics oh gods
naht meen?
.
No comments:
Post a Comment