in these wild days I go out in a basque
what do you mean it's too late?
imagine that—a gun against your/my head
I'd say shoot first and ask as the cone forms
what do you mean tonight?
oh but between your legs some semblance of
oh nothing, responsibility, owls that hark there
some drunken conclave of owls flat-headed
low-driven, the veins in your arms and breasts
green as waterfalls
deep as Derbyshire they struggle
ungoitred, iodined, not far now from oceans
but still a rejection, many-breasted
oh the grand vibration one day I walked into
Anne Summers, asked for a butt plug
but imagine it was like riding
a wild bull the faces of the masks of
the same day the masks of the faces
just
cool rain
still smoking off the gunmetal roads
the Rapture people still say
they are waiting so hard
but what they want after the Tribulation
is so materiel
what difference do they suppose?
cool are the draughts
slow are the sunlit rides
look instead at this wind-worn grit
fashion your hands to it
out on the moor in the wet lows
the geese shout nothing nothing nothing
we suck up the frogweed and turn south
.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment