A CAMERA LOST IN A SUBWAY STATION
(Intro:
THE GENETIC DEFLORATION OF A SHE-FRANKENSTEIN
I was afraid it was too late for all
those words - like signs no one would follow dow 747e417h n
a dead-end road - but still your tongue,
(was it pretentious, or your mother
one?) shifted like shafts in cylinders of
flesh - who cared about the curios
you'd hidden in your den, the Latinate
old style in which you used to spread your stuff:
the wood-legged bookcase would not budge; uncanny
colons looked like stitches on a long C-
section, a stuffing box stuck with incunables,
centennial? - you scent no sentence - just road rustles.)
A CAMERA LOST IN A SUBWAY STATION
You kept gasping
while trying to work your way through the crowd and make
out where or if I'm among them, squirming as if in
an everyday skirmish against every
body - they kept coming and going and caught
you in that whirl, a thick cat's cradle
so hard to pass around the world from my
fingers to yours while tangling with the palm
meant for nobody's money:
success yet sometimes means I think to have
sex on some agglomerate to pass
one's time as remedy for agoraphobia
or just to be with you in a bee-hive
hitching to where no boodle's left nor thrust:
breakfast in bed - no multitude to throng
you, not for the world.
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