to see the sails conceive
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind
Which she, pretty and with swimming gait
Following—
her womb then rich with my young squire
William Shakespeare
Softly softly barges river burnished gold push off into a lamb’s-blood night eli eli lamma sax cries alone upon the still Venetian water an old woman with a face of folded leather pulls the blind
Guitar pluck droplets fall moontight light tight strum softly rotates the centre of the sun
Slowly rotates in fiery distant silence
Strum eyelids flutter spastically to the course, coarse course of chords
Chordal cool midnight sounds of lovemaking couples down in the back alley, the voice of God on the stereo, and in my mind, only in my mind, there’s no mind, no time, and only past and future trading blows of electronic signals in my sorry head
I have fouled the words BUT AT LEAST I HAVE FOUND THE WORDS
searching with grubby hands among the offcuts and outtakes of the glory god ginsberg mausoleum for these syllabic scraps of leaf.
“I was in a crash last night my darling, it was horrific; I almost lived”
Aaaaaa Aacacaaacaaa
Cocorico ratso rizzo in requiem
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die
And for her sake do I rear up her boy
And they took me in and thought me a toy
And here I lay, mesmerically I lie
Birds fly away without me—
feed me shadow scraps in the—
pale light of dawn we—
danced on grass so silky—
and we moved so slowly.
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