there was a thought,
give the time,
and it was never worth
a book,
but there was something
bewildering,
worth the attention
being kept,
just as well:
fifty one minutes
past midnight...
   the last last review,
asked for,
answered with
the least manageable
conviction...
imagine:
the thoughts i had prior,
and this set of crimson skin hands,
had i the the role
in a lost cause -
         had i but the time,
i'd make the universe shrink
into a bullet size -
and expand into a will
of a giraffe entangling
a crocodile with a boa's
worth of a neck's length...
and then jabber, jabber shut,
that sort of life,
listed:
in the jaw-drop of a
hyena, a rottweiler, a doberman,
the mastiff, a pit bull,
       a bull terrier!
    somehow,
as odd as it sounds:
thinking about the breeds
of dogs, feels more memorising
than the type of women...
somehow the eyes of dogs
always felt more welcoming than
the eyes of women,
sexist? really?
     i like the idea of: realistic.
ought i make apology?
  i hardly think so...
the tact of man reads best
in the invoked epitaph on
a gravestone,
but the acts of women,
best described by a total of
inking as least made into
an: i forgott thinking:
man chose epitaph:
woman: a tattoo -
and with that, man, a grave;
while woman a harvestable
piece of flesh... readied
for sam & son gravediggers...
just imagine -
a minute - whereupon
you simply "forget" thinking,
ah, it doesn't matter,
both grave with epitaph in
marble,
or a tattoo upon the readied
flesh unto grave bound
worth of ink simply delayed...
nearing 9 minutes to 1 a.m.,
makes no difference,
    and as the time suggest:
there was never a minding
concern to suggest:
any parisian revolt was to become
choreographed.