On my victrola- Bjork: S*lmasongs

II.

A long insomniac rainbow
in our dark rooms, in our Kurd myrrh
lit by talking pumpkins, and glass
throwbacks. Cling not to fossil night

nor clang of schism. Unwar mind
must outskirmish that basilisk
in which pain snowy bright with pain
paints its horizon a lost thing.

I’m too old for drafting. Blood thing,
and blind truth stalks a picnic kiln
and griffin will waltz through this pain
and aroha fling its rainbow.

Softly, a sound of giddy myrrh
amidst triumphal Big Christ waltz:
thus occupation throws shard glass
in historic Portsmouth’s blown mind.

III.

Slow walk in a sad basilisk
rain. Victory catsup daubs us
with crimson on our indigo.
Satans minions fill this loud night.

As a burglar swoops during night
so has losing taught ilka thing
a phiz for ruin. Happy myrrh
cloys, it is far from wights in pain

as napalm burning from rainbow.
Satans minions, which is us. Kiln
food; arrows aim of basilisk
all around and a road thin glass

or mid Atlantic a thin mind
sinking. Void of stars indigo,
still many whirl that starry waltz
harmony which is not for us.