the carnival of cotton, cloud and sugar flakestonight is the carnival of wanderlust and pebble stones
i am afraid. the baskets of ivory and golden mist
have crawled the Ganges. or by the hudson
where a lady sleeps. by the park. on the river of dead
her womb aching with eyes. of real flesh. ribboned with haze
of sodomy and incest. a prostitute of gore.
she wanted nails. and breaths. and a violent wrest of milking breasts
tell the world. i am a woman of doom. and i have desires of love.
warm. pulsating. moist. trickling pain and shame.
today is the carnival of colors and bangles.
and pyramids of silk. the dandelions by the riverside
are wrapped in flames. deep pasty yellow. like a smudge
of wax and soft pastel on the window panes. sweaty with the rains.
twinkling and tinkling. glistening. as the trains rumble along
thickets of fantasy. piling up. like bricks of waves. crashing on an easel.
this world of wanderlust. and carnivals.
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