Motto: ”My uncle loves me too much…”
Gwendolyn Brooks
I don’t know how old I am
perhaps six or seconds before
in the florist-shop across the river
all vases smell like hell
he is standing in a floating tub
in the middle
a central-piece on a quantity of water
my uncle is nice
my uncle is fishing
I like him a lot
he loves me too much
[Jesus]:
Landslide put through my pace
landslide
has the grace
corpsalming me into
hollow corposants
incense to self-constriction
accelerating myself deadline
unperfection
ever so consanguine
reverse ampliation-
the contractile escape slid
the Code’s invisible ink
awaits me absorbtive
to implode amid.
The last tractile nadir-
veinal addiction
Blood, run out on me
her face too subdued
(don't you think?)
her hands too small
her ears in the right place
unlike her eyebrows, her nose and her mind
her back? a pack of bones
holding hopes at night
and that !dress
in the morning
she should eat more
no, less
no
her chin never moves
never moves
she sometimes does this with that
sometimes she doesn’t
sometimes she doesn’t?
she never ever.
I, the hindsight
have come a long way
(globe-trotting with my Siamese, the second-guesser
who might have gone a bit too far)
we are travel-worn
are there any vacancies?
The janitor
(how peculiar, his name was Janus)
spoke with a forked tongue
“there’s only room for one
but you could double up”
as soon as we plunged
into our truckle bed
with a sinking feeling
we overheard
Her black glove is flying across downtown.
“A crow!” they shouted. “A crow is attacking Eiffel Tour!”
...cry of a rooster/the goat is smiling...
She knows/He knows.
“Purple and white, of course!”
A wedding for a happy end.
A picture for a wedding.
The glove has no wing.
Just a small hole through
thick and thin.
Kept especially for the sixth finger.
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