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.