Pink
moon of another night,
wants
to bring newness in the boring sky
but
the blue horror in an airy mess
summons
the sun.
If
there’s no new death,
no
new birth
say
the skinny pages
no
deluding the blackjacks
the
real authors of those leaves
light
with dryness
they
fly in search of oil and artwork
to
give the moony white back
into
the nocturnal star
they
look like starving assassins
the
spelling carries two asses with sins
two
enemies intoxicated like twins
a
drunken stupor
the
sun stares, then smiles
in
its usual color.
In
the presence of all
these
meaningful people
you
are absent, inert
sitting
like the unused gland
maybe
they’d have got
what
they wanted
like
peace, for instance
or
prosperity, for a change .
But
no, they want others below them
more
than their upping
a
flock scared to change color
on
and off the stage.
On
the ground
some
boys play holy
with
the bowwow mongrels
they’re
busy licking.
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