Havana
In the fifties Havana was a gigantic whorehouse For the Americans,
and run by the Mafia and assorted businessmen , but down from
the mountain came Fidel Castro and created a principled society.
We didn’t like this Cuba should be a democracy that too often means
the right of the rich to subjugate the poor the helpless and those in
wheel chairs. So he was a communist then he who built a free health
this secular pope did this and made the best schools in the hemisphere
in face of cruel sanction from USA. The Obama with a horde of investors
will be bringing glass pearls and shiny promises.
I do not succumb to consumerism but retain their pride in being
the country that won a fifty years old struggle against a bitter enemy
OR
What I Learned on the Web Today
The whorehouse of the future
At least in Zurich’s mind
Is a bunch of car park cubicles
For hookers and their kind
This series of sex-box places
Where clients will drive into
Are on a 1st come-1st served basis
That will keep them from your view
Town folks by the way
Had this to say
We can’t rid the town of hookers
So we must learn to control it
And to keep out creepy lookers
We will also then patrol it
With the women by their boxes
There is no lost travel times
And that means these red-light foxes
Can collect a few more dimes
We’re just thinking of the ladies
And of their clientele
And a little of the citizens
Who within this town now dwell
If ever you’re in Zurich
And you need to park your car
Don’t stop where there are red lights
If there, you’ve gone too far
i grew up next to
and worshiped in a whorehouse
called a church
where I raised many a supplication
on bent knees,
though very few were answered
except the prayers I wasn’t holy enough to pray
Like the tongue of a wet dream, there is something over the sky.
Soaked red wings, the dampness of drowned naked day.
He looks over sighing
“The Wind has Penetrated me, Does that count as Fornication?”
I Sip pomegranate tea and stare blankly.
It is a dance, this.
Only Red and Lusty Syllables know it,
It is Nothing,
It is Shadow.
The Sky itself is scarcely moist.
I am waiting on words to come--- Divine, Violet and Brutal.
Action Adjective Sounds stirred with Verb Color.
Words to Swell Sheets, Close Curtains and send teeth biting into Wrists and Arms.
It is Raining Invisible Water, The Sunset Wildly Drunk on Itself.
Clouds Bite Deliriously into Soft-Hued Blue-Orange chunks,
The Moon Fights for its Place, impregnating stars with reckless abandon.
I Look over, sip,
“The Sky is a Whorehouse tonight”
Fingers in belt loop, a sudden reply,
“Well then…”
Green eyes Glisten--- Holy Holy Holy, Eye-Lashes licking my soul,
“Should we… leave the curtains open and really give ‘m a show?”
I look up, the rain tasting my tongue,
Flick out a cigarette, Immolate
And Send my Ashes to the Sky.
-thend-
Sex bonds two people together
like butter without bread
nothing but solid gray
sand and lonely tears.
Sex is a weapon.
Shoot you are dead.
Lost and misread
this loaded gun full
of bullets.
My heart a bed of rocks.
I love you but sex is
a weapon.
Sex holds us to someone
and without it we are
lost and afraid.
Lay down your shield.
The battle is won
and there is always
a love for someone.
We fight but sex is
always the bullet straight
to the soul it leaves a hole
and drags you back for more.
Sex is a weapon.
Shoot this heart.
Bend your dear sin.
I will forgive
because of sex
the bullet goes in
and the war is won.
Shine your eyes
for mercy.
Sex is a weapon.
Give it to me and
I will blow your mind.
Dead, then you
wake for a new shine.
A whorehouse at
the altar.
Boots for your mother.
Have mercy on us all.
Sex is the enemy it
always gets us every time.
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