from her window she could see
the shells of buildings the bombs battered--gray concrete
ghosts, haunting in their silence

Father said his ears
hadn't stopped ringing since the attacks, though he still
could hear her playing

and he expected her practice to continue
for one day, he promised, prayers would prevail, peace
would return, and her song would be heard

play, he entreated, for ivory, black
and white, has forgotten the evil of men, their carnage;
the notes know nothing except to be played

and to give pause for hope, when
more trenchant sounds demanded one’s attention,
still the song must remain

Again the train makes
a standard stop at what
the **** am I doing

So I get off.

Dinshaw argues that
the text is feminine and
the writer masculine but what
does that have to do with anything?

Good lord, the frilly words make
crochet lace and the others
make the rest-- now doesn't
that make sense: a scent
of cents means money!

The sign of the signified says: Why
the **** is this happening? You read
into me and translate accordingly but
can't seem to interpret a bit of it like the
first poem in Zong, but I'm not sure if you'll
remember what that quite looks like

You reading rather feminine lace
together an image of Mulcahy from
the Coombe that's not a bit like the
man! With a laugh who could
blame a drunken thought?

All the stupid girly **** gets dealt
with in a familiar manner stripped
bare teeth tearing the cloth in the process
of progressing to **** it like the little
**** it is: exactly how it deserves

Your moon princess turns
into folklore where nothing
is left but an ancient language
written in a mother tongue
in languish whilst unspoken.

You read languidly like
sparknotes slow speed reading
some well known notion readily

Of me standing stark naked
--out of clothes-- at a
random station

There is a violence in translation.