Tuesday, April 22, 2014

To be hand fed papayas before sleep

...of pale, pale, tyrants
Boteros whose breast turns yellow in October and green in late May
Yet never matches the blue of their wilted irises
wiki says piercings
ought not complicate suckling 
turn all then to Theresas, mothers 
all that hangover, now wears a pale pink sari
just as easily beatified as besmeared it was on every side by a multicultural trace of ointments, creams
and feathers of that same strange bird which demands now more than just papayas
Searching for their very distinctive dung,
I part all layers off my pupal case
It’s the right season alright to wage war on a pierced heaven
which in return for our promise to worship it alone
spreads dung of its solemn feasts on
as many starving members
of the communion
modeled as a fixed unknown parameter

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