1.
Visions of the louse, lotus-eater in Louvre,

midinette’s MIDI the missing link to your

mistrial, Soraya, destructive halogen truth

burdening my Recife recollections: squaws

looking for square meals in the thunderous

textbooks of erotology, dust-delivered

atoms of mise en scène where playboys

reach secretariats of intelligence, wounded

by rabbit’s foot. Rabbinical quipu, our

quintet of hermit crabs taking over the

ghat leading down to ghibelline ghetto,

Soraya, we all cheat on the exacta, propped

up by the dry misericord, package tours

ending in nightly finger-of-god juju. 
2.
Daddy longlegs comes to me in a czarina’s

cretaceous dream, pointing out Soraya’s

battle-hardened crepe de chine indicia,

and the public address system explodes

in the self-involved night with spicules

of perversion: the fornax pesthouse is full

of outspoken pacifists, outpatients in space

marked by mushrooming magic lanterns.

In an enchained gravura, I emigrate on

difficult nights toward your besieged

delta, Soraya, conservationist of energy,

cloud hopping toward pianola closure.

Your curvature of lithic dementi supports

the little people’s curse of the glass jaw.
3.
Martial eagles, martinets who were never

country cousins, concentrate their graphic

comstockery on concertos led by Punjabi

punkettes: rack rent extorted by raconteurs

whose second childhood is like Soraya’s

forgotten memory bank, axis of symmetry

rotated until the capriccio fossilizes into

integers of subordination. Young palominos

are limping with the acceleration of lineage,

limited edition anesthesia scattering their

madrigal main page. Soraya, melodeon of

small defeats, your night riders are fat,

like Father’s Day, like the fauborgs of

Fatima, fer de lances’ feminine rhymes.