you hear a whisper in the wind next to you. the taxi driver. snorting honey and milk. he speaks of a child. with broken spine and failing heart. this land is ours. this rain on my tongue. and wind on my walls. the lady is ill. this hopeless disability has lesion-ed her womb. the fertility of manhattan lights. the fecundity of water boats. asleep. so parochial in the tide of disability.
this is home. the city of tin. the wires of grass and pregnant aluminum. entangled and enmeshed. like a racist mannequin. sprayed charcoal smoke along the curve of a flailing vagina-scape. the breasts. like silken creme. sand grains of brittle pearl. polka dots on mannequin skin. the interface of historic indigence and emerald stains. this is home. like a montage. of hearts and drugs. of squealing suicide from the racks at the guggenheim. the flashlights make me dizzy. so dizzy. i sit. and smell the paint. lick the wax from the suicide notes. tattooed onto her horizontale. her vagina. unshaven. and her model of ridicule. charlie on the mirror. there is a femininity. francesca. taped and bitten on her thighs. little shards of glass. and saliva mirrors. a woman. a mirror. a woman is mirror for a man. i ran so close to a portrait of angels #1. a self-portraiture. head in a pool of blood. so fake. so real. i want to scream. and bite my thighs. and scratch my eyes. hold my eyes. and rub them till they bleed. you girl of 1978. the polka dots on your nipples. are on display to a million art lovers. with the like of picasso and cezanne. could you ever imagine? your hair braided. ribboned in telephone wires electrocuting your burning scalp? and a spoon. in the city of tin.
also. at the coffee shop. the man beside. gorgeous, so volatile. crying. and i say. the passing of spring -the birds weep and in the eyes of fish there are tears. a haiku from the east. tears on fish eyes? what of the river? the permanence. the impermanence of ink and alchemy of the plutocrat. he holds my hand. and roils a cup of cold stale coffee. asleep in a paper cup for seventy seven hours. this is all i had. a cup of drugs. and rotten piss. i haven't gone home in three days. what do i tell my pregnant wife? my miscarried son? my pregnant daughter? what do i tell the world of rage?
you city of tin. never sleep. the birds are weeping and in the eyes of fish there are tears.
this is home. the city of tin. the wires of grass and pregnant aluminum. entangled and enmeshed. like a racist mannequin. sprayed charcoal smoke along the curve of a flailing vagina-scape. the breasts. like silken creme. sand grains of brittle pearl. polka dots on mannequin skin. the interface of historic indigence and emerald stains. this is home. like a montage. of hearts and drugs. of squealing suicide from the racks at the guggenheim. the flashlights make me dizzy. so dizzy. i sit. and smell the paint. lick the wax from the suicide notes. tattooed onto her horizontale. her vagina. unshaven. and her model of ridicule. charlie on the mirror. there is a femininity. francesca. taped and bitten on her thighs. little shards of glass. and saliva mirrors. a woman. a mirror. a woman is mirror for a man. i ran so close to a portrait of angels #1. a self-portraiture. head in a pool of blood. so fake. so real. i want to scream. and bite my thighs. and scratch my eyes. hold my eyes. and rub them till they bleed. you girl of 1978. the polka dots on your nipples. are on display to a million art lovers. with the like of picasso and cezanne. could you ever imagine? your hair braided. ribboned in telephone wires electrocuting your burning scalp? and a spoon. in the city of tin.
also. at the coffee shop. the man beside. gorgeous, so volatile. crying. and i say. the passing of spring -the birds weep and in the eyes of fish there are tears. a haiku from the east. tears on fish eyes? what of the river? the permanence. the impermanence of ink and alchemy of the plutocrat. he holds my hand. and roils a cup of cold stale coffee. asleep in a paper cup for seventy seven hours. this is all i had. a cup of drugs. and rotten piss. i haven't gone home in three days. what do i tell my pregnant wife? my miscarried son? my pregnant daughter? what do i tell the world of rage?
you city of tin. never sleep. the birds are weeping and in the eyes of fish there are tears.
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