(dedicated to Tristan Tzara)
to that place of wanting
blue moon lying so sweetly
and any claim of tears now laughed away
to hell with that cruel april month
that was always pimping her hopes
all the time cutting deeper into the joke
that her shadow told behind her back
the razor of love drove deep
yet still she ran away
to that market super that had dead things
you could eat before you rot yourself
piece by piece
the sour and sweet of night and day
that is given out with little joy
but the trail of tygers in night forests
still lick their lips as she stumbles.