By | 1 September 2013


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.


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.


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.

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