Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Morning - For my friend Gaby


Today I woke with purple eye.
The bed sheet covered with bitterness,
the horizon dyed your gaze with resentment.
It was my prison, my sticky algae refuge,
the silence of dead birds.

God I love you Gaby! Your hands
strange tentacles of islands.
Oysters open their eaten shells
rock jellyfish and sirens
have indigo lips.
So much oblivion, so much baseness!

A wounded wolf with hemlock penis
howled in your brain.
It hit the staghorn corals.
So much water lily perfume
in the swamp inside you.

The morning was intoxicating liquor,
menstrual delirium. Your sex
on top of my tumbling soul
defeated. The froth of your mouth,
the epilepsy of sound scream:
God how I love you!

You were the vampire
of my night carriage, the dice
rolled in red brothels, the subtle
emanation of nipples.

Next morning
your teeth bit my forbidden fruit,
walked with tousled hair, wandered
the streets of my chalices.  You knew
how to unleash the envy of morning joggers.

There’s no answer to the torture
of your silence, you gave everything
you had in the rocks, the mosses,
the cliffs, the gelatin slits of my skin.
Your gaze fell victim to a deathly pecking.
Once eyeless, you destroyed gulls,
infected the solace of your prison cell.




You are the first haggard hours of my morning.

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