Friday, October 22, 2004

Pulling whiskers in the autumn heat

The one complete, black, brilliant sun surfaces the shining of your eye.
It's perfect sphere are like gauntlets in starlight,
and the neon sticks are rushing back and forth from strings on a tree.

Florence kick the shoes off and jumps to bed.
Another night in, another shoeshineboy's dead twin;
Restless are thy nights, adhere the sleep or do as I said.

Oedipus and sacred cats compete in psychoanalytic treatises,
and the children of Ghana's streets sounds like one echo
of my disfunctional conscience.

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