from hell to boot of mandolin
the towered child with shackled son of rock
cocks\' weary eye to daylights\' splintered wind
as rose of hyacinth
breaks bread with scarlet wings
as tortured mothers pray as midnight sings
of days\' end when the mourning so begins;
how still each day has slept two decades long
the seeping blood of moon of sun on soldiers\' limping flesh
from mud hatch to asylum to the manned wards
the dead dream thumbs her nose
prints his footsteps on the cyclone of the sleep
as strong as I am weak
am just a servant to the terrors of the street;
am just a snake in withered grass of manuscript
my name on bullets\' eye of vegetable
that eyes the ticking time-bomb on my marrowed root
still as yellow as the schoolboy in my brain
as I horse my shoes seeking shelter from the virgin rain
picking petals from the apples of my heart
like a dumpling pimping flowers dressed as art;
there is no art in cowardice
the pantry maid still flakes my gunshot womb
in my room of colours distant as her colours near
my evergreen desire of the safe walk
to talk of animals inside the ark to timbuktu
as two beside the graves\' incontinence
picking wisdom from the flowers of my sperm;
how drunk must be the vineyard snail
to cross my palm with her dark brown ale?
it is through the blood of the jesus-whale
I must swim as victim, village priest and quail;
goodnight my midnight venice
the true love of my midnight serenade
my deserted halls of memory in the lighted shade
still picking flowers from the apples of my heart
it is now the grieving starts
when hell stops so the heavens start
god always sleeps on sunday!