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.