THE QUEEN COMES TO OUR CITY

"Among the purple feathers
Constance cuts an arresting figure."
As simple as that. I repeat.
The contents of my thought should not be
so trivial. The contents eating themselves. One
eating the other's substance. From subtle to daily
trivialities. Routines of people who some
call dogs and someone else is dyeing. His hair
red, lovely curls, capitalized, long like a syringe,
translucent balls of fire inside,
fiery cotton inside my head.
You are lovely tonight, going to die soon
so I am writing this ode to you...
Sitting behind that calculator sitting behind
that typewriter crawling behind that
word processor, you are lovely
and I will die for you.
No gas no electricity--Buddha's spring water
leaks here and there and then
crumples on your forehead, spits itself out.
the daily existence of a crocodile drowned in
someone else's tears.Connoisseurs of Beaux Arts
float down the Nile nowadays. Nowadays I see
the face of my late grandmother in this gray and
I'll-steal-you-Kafka-street. Don't touch this
and don't urinate here...Eat this slice of rye,
she says.And then she adds "I intended
to go far accross the sea
after all this has ended", meaning "all this"
the state of Pure War. It never ends though,
the content of my thought.It has its own frame
and an armour for itself. Thought feeding on itself.
The thought takes a piss.
The thought is a fox. It evades me and comes back
demanding my lousy attention.
And now, how could I not love you in front
of your warped mirror; you hide your belongings
behind that Eiffel of remembrance--it collapses
and I am trampled to death. In this frantic haze
of discoveries the city is old and a drag,
a troubled goyim drag fighting for its own existence.
Existence of a thought. My bed is troubled tonight
because it is spread and flat and it contains
the trampled thought. My bed is a cage for memories
and there is a crystal dove there, too.
There is a thought of mine there
resembling the West African Harmatan and
there is a particular love for one thought there
which has filth under its nails. There is
a thought which refuses to pay $ 500
for a dump where rats read Rabelais.
But you are lovely tonight, so lovely refusing
these Perugina candies which I love the best. They
are going to die in my mouth melted,
and there is a thought for them too.
"I feel better when I paint," Leah says, and then
she turns to poetry. This thought of poetry will
kill me eventually, but I don't regret it.
All this dandruff on my shoulders, all the points
we re eager to spot and make!
There is a thought of a lavender street in my future,
and I should be going there right now.