Thursday, November 05, 2009





   "Popes of the Ghetto" (Pessoa, VII.)

In the burning shadows where my heart dwells grieve thee
hatching midnight tentacles, relic thought
in overfishing cataract who believe thee
not. A suburb crag or two, the desire to not
finish, pallid moths instead of stars:
i seldom quaff as such. Panic survived
even its regimentation in fragrant bars
of Betelgeuse. The Portuguese believed
in ground fog. Hull of maroon contains the world;
bury the chains, your serfdom coif born covering
a Klingon Wicca lament, sunken otherworld.
No clinic gawk, silken with discovering,
now. One day a dearth of borders may
growl, too, past this totems of dismay.


Sock it to Me.


Queen of the Dalits.

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