(no subject)
in hidden caves beneath blanket tomb
with faces of thieves I’ll never lick
in a bed at night while fingers bloom
dreams of freudian, the dreadful sick
to find the lost arabic bubbles
among paper stems and prints of grey
left to join with the poor girl’s troubles
but to fight and drift another day
an african queen floats on ocean
rafts with fish hooks tied onto her toes,
and measureless mouths match motion
pictures while coleridge - only god knows -
snorts up crushed aspirin off her eyelids,
discuss coming months after a fashion
with ivory wine that tongue forbids
to speak with only utmost passion;
the keys that stick from out the mud
tuned toward the flashing flood
strike the chord of cancer blood
I fantasize at night some times
that I were but a single cat
blind to all unknowable crimes
parachuting peaceful combat
left to consume alone a plague
swept borneo a mournful cheer
empty heads so dry and vague
with the ground impossibly near