a heart that lends itself for an hour,
an honest hour,
i'll spend an extra month in this town,
watching spring wrestle with
the last chain-whip of winter,
just like today, pomeranian snow,
a blizzard and a teasing vulcanised
ashen sky, pale mother golgotha
and all the remaining iconoclasms
burdening the school of saints,
an extra month, wathing days grow
longer, and by 5pm, the yawn the
high atmospheric pressure and
fighting the toffee eyes just enough
to sit akimbo on the floor hunched
graced by the warm southern breeze
cooling as it comes down the northern
Carpathia mountains,
    the Tatras: a long blink of azure
and comes the ceiling crashing down...
an extra month, the old woman
wanted me to decorate her kitchen
and her corridor,
        an extra month...
                 and after a year or so of
celibacy i will finally do what i know
what to do best, spin the economy,
pay for an hour, no gruesome detail,
no slush-puppy soppy "my idea of love
is the ideal love"... past itchy-salt wounds
and the miracle of an elephant's
doing less damage than a woman
in high-heel shoes...
                      a scrutiny of but an hour,
saving graces of momentum i couldn't
adhere to: this boy runs on gasoline
and counting minutes as stones,
    one stone, two stones, three:
     an anchor's dive into the harangue
of the sea by her own proto dictum
   of asking a ship to wreck...
     a sirens' lullaby...
     obiter cogitatio: a thought in passing,
as all things must,
           worse, skim reading,
   without a dangling tongue upon
   the fore',
                  almost like a schoolboy,
who has the pleasure of riding
the madonna-***** complex to its
natural conclusion in a brothel...
hardened heart, hardened elsewhere,
mush boy blue, mush boy white,
mush boy and castrato operas elsewhere,
mush boy blue, V V V...
             how it doesn't work the miracle
when it doesn't have to:
     clean-cut of the guillotine
          between...
    and they say that if a man walking
behind a woman will stare at her buttocks...
stranger standing riht behind a woman...
in a supermarket queue,
       seems eroticism stronghold of
a woman's hand does migrate and takes
hold of her height...
      at 6ft1... she's most ******
                  shy of my 'head...
for the first time (and only from
behind) can a close symmetry based on
height allow such a strange infatuation,
hierarchical, orderly,
     when breeding pedigree alsatians
and labradors and even siamese cats,
        notably homogeneity erotica,
              concentrated in height correlation
of the male and female specimen...
     nothing as crass as the remaining
anatomy that's the niqab of ****...
           sooner or later the mammary glands
of cows, and bye bye goes all things prior...
now hands i could have understood,
male : female perfect height proportion
came as a strange aphrodisiac for the eyes...
a cramped supermarket was all it took...
    and at least in that hour where
everything remains prestigiously formal,
no bargain of hearts,
    no slush-poppy poetry about how how
how such a love elsewhere is beauuuuu-
ti ti ti- full of horseshit...
        oh and such a love is,
     left to a straitjacket asked not
to scratch itself with rose thorns aged
twenty one...
                         economics takes over,
and a clash with boredom and man
trying out imitating the noble monogamy
of swans... the widower swan,
   or the widow swan...
            a least others contend with
   the walrus harem, and others, well...
make pacts with the thieves and wolves
among other themselves...
                              thrice a repeated
feat, on the fourth attempt,
         i and my mother's brother can both
testify...
                are not already over saturated
by the thespians? sometimes an hour
and she forgets she is in the real theatre
and not some 22nd snippet put together
with the 10th take of a 23rd snip
       that makes up 30 seconds worth of
cinematic fakery...
        sometimes the hound burrows in
her bowels and she aches from being
given money for her own pleasure being
served... came the needle pinch
   came the pinch of salt on the tongue,
came Sahara in her eyes,
                 came the curled up
naked body sold to her own mirror
image of shame...
              me and my glacier cold doll eyes,
listening to the harangue of the sea
        that woman is,
              on the sly and on the eerie slant
marching past a church at exactly 11pm,
    inexhaustible seance in expectation
of the resurrection of 11 hang-men of Tehran,
not that poetry exists in the Islamic world
outside of Persia...
           came the people
from Dune al-Riyadh, with a meager
                                                  bibliography,
Arabic women don't exactly have **** hands...
******* frankfurter fingers
         walking down Edgware Rd,
   she-eshia eating baklava eating
    new-money, formerly women of the desert
plough, fig harvesting, camel milking
    new "aristocracy" build upon:
oil is thicker than blood, blood is thicker
than water... just another passing thought,
after all, comes the dance of decadence,
comes the pecking crow knocking with
   a pekish tease, a curling tongue gurgling
as if drowning, perched on either
   a branch of oak birch or pine,
     or even upon the crucial hand
    of the outstretched cross in the forest
of the labours of prayer, which the deaf
can even hear, solemn vibrato humming
of pierced lips and clenched teeth.