Sulfurous days
a varicose bay
milky fig and Amalfi tits
lacquered chest
baking in the sun like pottery
quoting crows
trapped behind sunglasses
reflecting the glare of a gold chain
there was fiction in the curse
namely affection
she tasted like envelopes
the devil's invitation in blue eyes
Madonna/ whore
it's complex
my little tchotchke
with mosquito bites on your brown thighs
tracing a sensual latitude
from the sea
glittering like broken glass
to the edge of town square shadows
where slick professional street niggas
Sell captagon and fake designer bags
e negri hanno il cazzo grande? è vero?
a harmonium warbles
walnut tea steeps
when the sun goes down
the sea breeze picks up
and we stay out late
dancing in the tavern carpark
in the headlights of cars
a bag of ashes in the garden
a handful of blood and bone
stains flower stamens like a broken nose
gardening is the full moon dance
of the elderly
alone at home
with a yard full of roses and morning dew
and nowhere to go
who knew it'd end up like this?
these days the streets
are full of new slang
and primitive children
since the factory shut down
bored men congeal in cafes
betting on horses
multiplying the holes in their shoes
and singing the boarding house blues
Roma this morning came by
wearing dark coats they dyed
downstream from where their women bathed
on the edge of town where they reside
dragging a donkey that brayed and cried
as they sang their songs
I made the sign of the cross
the morning sun
melted the footprints they left in the frost
I couldn't stay out there long though
the city workers are striking again
And even though it's winter
the trash fucking stinks
I sat in the kitchen
buttered some bread
and thought about the way
you used to button my shirts
I can smell the starch now
I guess that's love
I don't care what anybody says
death is real
And the feature is grief.