Your mother and father and aunt and her son
And the grandmother’s other friend
With the left tooth missing, your husband
And his cyber friend who plays ‘Underground’:
Tell them that I told that someday
I’ll be coming.
Your mother, the segregationist,
Is dead and in a coffin
And to those who come to wipe tears
You offer drinks and tiffin.
Is her spirit sitting there
Where the armchair doesn’t rock?
Like when she whistles to the fish seller,
In her kitchen-stained frock?
They watch me as my beard
My shirt pocket touch
And those who don’t know who I am
Wonder this much:
“Who is he?” and you pass
Your curves rock the frilled skirt
Or vise versa — or whatever —
And we have long quit the flirt.
I watch you, like the camera
Which Curtis maneuvers, as as swiftly
As a line by Jonathan you move
Across space, across smiles, and I who once assured
You’re the queen of the darn mortal race, assures
That you have wasted where the waist
Was: what he who dreamed to bang you most dreamed of
— But a little, but an inch or two — cos, as the
Vulgar poets said, one can still put one’s palms, clasp it all
And make you stutter , make you utter “You slutter take me to bed”.
Oh, yes, I am positively dreaming
And I see noone talks to me even as the
Best known faces smile, walks and if you have
Put on weight, then, how can it be, I wonder,
You sail like that: like a corn flake lost in flight?
Do not think, for a moment
That that bitch’s fartly death
Will save the others salvation
From my home made gun.
I craved her flesh, too, to
Be fucked like a cabbage
Caught in a vegetarian’s sloth member
On a day sex was banned.
As I leave I retreat pebbles
Years ago touched with a care,
Warmth which only oil-less
Dust memory might know —
If you told that to revisit
You’d be coming, so to refresh,
The essentials and highlights —
For time’s hide lulls; grows.
Out the gates, by what flags,
What collects wind and flutters,
A silent white flag a no longer
Valid story mutters. The yard has
Grown, gone to wilderness and
Every soft spot is covered and
An altered memory of landscape
Is a burden to irony.