With white frost gone
And all green dreams not worth much,
After a lean day's work
Time comes round for that foul ****:
Mere bruit of her takes our street
Until every man,
Red, pale or dark,
Veers to her slouch.

Mark, I cry, that mouth
Made to do violence on,
That seamed face
Askew with blotch, dint, scar
Struck by each dour year.
Walks there not some such one man
As can spare breath
To patch with brand of love this rank grimace
Which out from black tarn, ditch and cup
Into my most chaste own eyes
Looks up.

Vultures fly above the sky
Guarding memory leaks,
And occasionally through the cracks
My thoughts begin to seep:

Some about me and most about you,
I'd wish we'd never met.
A contradiction through and all,
Because without you I'd burn to death.

The wall is a universe stuck in inertia waiting to explode and
no one minds.
My underwear is white and full of **** and
no one minds.
The lamp-posts lit a show of dancing dust, the ticket’s free and
no one minds.
A boy thought that the moon looks sad tonight but his mother
does not mind.
A jeepney driver drives so fast he
lost his mind.
This is the tenth line of the poem and
everyone forgot
that there is a wall and it just exploded.
The ruins of the wall stood like a poem.
Oh, never mind.

you play me like
a 1963 Gibson f-hole guitar, mint condition:

you know exactly where to hold and press and play
moving your fingers with such talent it takes my breath away.

so tune me to your heart’s desire,
because I like it best when you’re pulling the strings