Weeping at the crossroads
Weeping at the crossroads
I confuse dawn with dusk
and jump into a chimera saying:
Wear out serenity, drink it dry.
We’re not only made of time.
We run with regret behind us
and terror before us, secretly
wishing we were no longer together
by Bastille Day, while sipping
English tea and watching Columbus,
the damn gigolo, lick smelly royal
unicorn vagina, Isabel’s, the official
regal sampler of foreskin.
She dedicated herself like a junky
to knitting Boabdil’s war at home,
and genocide abroad. The first
modern woman was Charlotte Corday
it’s a shame she's not a contemporary mummy
at Musée Du Louvre. A woman
behind no famous man, a saint
chiseled in guaiacum, one of the three
faces of Eve that hunted down
the novicery of Adam.
I confuse dawn with dusk
and jump into a chimera saying:
Wear out serenity, drink it dry.
We’re not only made of time.
We run with regret behind us
and terror before us, secretly
wishing we were no longer together
by Bastille Day, while sipping
English tea and watching Columbus,
the damn gigolo, lick smelly royal
unicorn vagina, Isabel’s, the official
regal sampler of foreskin.
She dedicated herself like a junky
to knitting Boabdil’s war at home,
and genocide abroad. The first
modern woman was Charlotte Corday
it’s a shame she's not a contemporary mummy
at Musée Du Louvre. A woman
behind no famous man, a saint
chiseled in guaiacum, one of the three
faces of Eve that hunted down
the novicery of Adam.
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