Träume
time is the slimy unguent
of thought
my mother vomits Nabokovian verbs
in bright primary colours
the arts & letters are laid bare
on shelves
(true art is the ability to not
but distort colorectally
flanked by crazed messiahs in rags
on all sides begging for some sin
a woman observes me lasciviously
from a white panel van
behold the man o pleas enjoin his wail
a truculent recrudescence tantamount to riparian wit
the man is a battery of pain
walking the perfumed rows he discharges it and meanwhile
my eyes are the framed mirrors of want
I sit in the Sanguinarium and
wait & soon come yelloworange dreams to me
a bale of hay neatly tied on the back of a blue pickup truck
the same red coffeecan honda turns the corner
over and over and over and over and over and o—