I've got an angry memo. I've got a sad memo.
I've got memos out the ass. White rain falls on Tokyo
on a district, on a street, on a dead boy. Bozo,
the boy's secret hero, is stunned for the lotus in the rain.
They met once near the fragrant West Quay—
both dazed. Both removed their plaid sorrow
swimming naked in night's broad arms
to a sandbar in whose exact center
flocks of African peacocks die by day.
Zero Love demands the most intense of lovers,
for these are bound in lethal skin. So possessed
do they become of the other, they cannot think
of possessing the air they mutually breathe.
These selfless selves stare, glued to the primordial
detonation locus their mothers never forgive them for.
The mutilation of the inner tambourine is perfect.
Then one Saturday night on the bayou—
Year of the Rat—Zero Boy and Bozo
rise from the grave as the Ghost of Zero Wish.
Their garments weave the moonlight like jellyfish
scabbed on the inside, and the final process
unfolds discreetly in the first light of the loess.
White rain falls on Tokyo. I've got an angry memo.
I've got a sad memo. I've got memos out the ass.