Thursday, February 03, 2011

mournful cries in the upper air

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?

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