You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
Small gauge large sound
could be trivia profound
Stations and shunters
red lights for the punters
Small member large auto
mobile cars pars pro toto
In silly banter we trust
French letters a must
But remember the other
Freud had a mother
In Victorian Vienna he toiled
his thoughts rather soiled
In mind he bonked on the couch
dirty old man sought to debauch
Those wicked rationalizations
what a treat for all nations
Kill thy father bonk thy pother
plenty of perversity to smother
So deliriously stupid it seems
it is all in all in those dreams
Yet morbid mortality calls
when the man stumbles and falls
He walked a tight sleezy rope
cocaine was his grand old dope
When the wicked go mad
it culminates bad and sad
High volume tiny shackles
still nonsense’s trifle crackles
All quiet again at the libido check out
Sigmund is dead long live the doubt
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