mercoledì 28 maggio 2014

Modern Prayer For The Rack-Rent

As It Set In Motion With A

Kick At The Port On The Rear? Your Clothes
Dangle On A Sigh Of Iron
Taut As Your Braid, Schoolgirl On The First Day Of Desk, On Which You Saw
The Seagulls Lift Off And The Future Perfect Become
Confused In The Eyes Of Your Father;
During The Hour That Evening Moans In The Hands Of
The Women Bowed To

Their Aprons And To
Look For Lice To Pass The Time, And Pass It
To You, Little Girls -

Close The Open Spaces Out. Out Means Your Mind And The Fact Is That Your Mind Doesn’t Exist
At All, As Well As Your
Face, Your Eyes. Nothing Up-To-The-
Minute, To Be Sure,
I Heard The Miner Say - Before He Entered The Cave
I Would Have Never Seen Him Again.
And I Learned, I Discovered.

You May Say It’s Impossible – I Say Love Do Seem Impossible, Too
Don’t You See The Way Young _Lovers Do?
Enough To Be Unreal, And They Tell
The Unintended Kisses, Simply.

I Still Keep In Mind The Red Carpets
Of Your Spoken Tongue, My Love,
In Which The Ancient Poet Wrote His Letters In Silver And
Seeds__ Of _Tangerine

A Joyful Noise I Heard

Standing The Rain And Me _Under The Tree That Flourishes
The Knife And Your Eyes Divine.

Oh What Do Love Put In The Hand Of A Fool!
Majesty Is The Word Love,
Majesty Is The Bee, Too – The Water In The Jar Of A Thirsty Vigilance – The Sun Vacillating On
A Side Of The Scale - Oh What It Costs This Light At Times
Pitting The Quartz Of My
Son’s Skull
And Making It_ Spring Comprehensible Fountains To
Wash The Clothes Of All The Children
Of  Nazareth, And Our Sisters’ Hairs And Our Brothers’
Fashion Accessories.

I Know - Freedom __Is A Hard Word To __Pronounce                    (Pray God, A Stone – Whatever)
Freedom Is A Winding Word, Not Easy To Release
I’ve Never Met A Free Individual For

The Reason That, Somehow, A Stupid Commandment Makes A Man__ Or A Sister Be An Individual
All Along The Years Of Teens My Professors
Told Me How To Share,
How To Divide An Apple, The Fire In The
Fireplace Or The Fruit Of

The Orange Tree, (The Most Troubled Thing To Do) My Books With A Companion
But It’s Pleasant To Divide The Golden Words
Written Somewhere Inside

(Using A Ballpoint The Crimson-White Whore Called Love,
According To The Pebbles Of Antonine Artaud)

And For All  Diners. I Would Have Liked To Learn Better How To
Play My Mother’s Piano, To Practice My Cry
As Loudly As Possible

In Your Shadow Still Remaining – Me -
(You May Possibly Mean I ) – Walking In It,

– Properly –
I Still Can Find The Place Where The Wild Fennel
Lets Its Perfume Caress My
And Now My Cry Is A Delivery Of Hourglasses – Ridiculous Handles Separated By Doors; Now My
Cry Is A Bright Bird Of Green, You Can Call Him Poetry, My Guy Use To Call Him
Mr. Fantasy, Like A Famous Song We Used To Sing.
Don’t Be Afraid.             Fly,
Fly  My Little Bird, Spirit Of Inspiration, With All Of
Your ____Conspiracy To__ Save

The Leaving ___And The Waiting.

I Don’t Need A Nest –The Bird Says – Who’s Going To Ever Necessitate
A Nest Before He’s Gone? I Ask. But My Voice Decreases,
And The Door Is Locked, As Well As The
Landlord Requests.

                                                                           I Wish Him To Be Blessed.

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