Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Call Me the Artist Who Doesn’t Know What He’s Doing

I’m late, as ever, but likely will soon see again
her lips, her flattering buses of Biedermeieresque
sycophants, ja?

I’m blasé, as always, populous and closed as Bombay
heavily rained on, flooding my temple with Subhiksha’s
cellophane, hm?

I’d brave it, m’nurse, caress it within infirmaries,
laugh with you, my cant/hubris, you are unperturbed
by debris, haha.

Three hundred girls, Spartans, met me for their mousikē,
told me about a disco where infernos or pseudanthiums
bloom, oh yeah.

I said, bring em on, caress me to heaven and why not?
Insufferable, indomitable, am welterweight enough for
sympathy, oh no!

No comments:

Post a Comment