The sun like a gong
The gong scything the memory of your dreams
Your dreams contained within an umbrella
The umbrella opens its stem of roses
Roses are Fred, violets are Drew
Drew with the Indians, won against the Red Sox
The Red Sox of your concupiscence
Concupiscent as a plum blossom
A plum blossom parachuting in the East Wind
The East Wind hot as a eunuch’s breath
The breath as an instrument of meaning
Meaning like a drop shot into the net
The net of your existence
Existence as non-existence
As non-existent as the palm at the end of a cheese rind
The mind garrots through a delta, not the Irrawaddy
The Irrawaddy of a peace accord
Accord me the recognition as befits me, a neck of state
A state bordering on madness
Madness like a sewing machine
A sewing machine : the way you look at me
The way you look at me = a slab of granite
Granite, the infinity of your grit
The grit of the mill
The mill of the floss
The FLOSS of your heart
The heart as a factory
The factory pumping blood into the eddy
The eddy runs into the ocean
My ocean runs in your eddy
The Eddy Merckx of politics
Politics as vol de nuit
Le vol de nuit of Hitler’s ambition
The ambition knifing into you
You like me
*”There is no such thing as a metaphor of a metaphor. One does not progress through metaphors.” – Wallace Stevens, From the Notebooks.
