Never-read thoughts of dead in forgotten pyramids
single-breasted women of the jungle and their suffering
having no more to give than a fixed strain of milk and poverty
you wouldn't hear me telle whatever to you about it if I would not
but some wheight I carry stops my breath and my anxious silence
is supposed to reffer to people hidden in time and mixed indeed
in the fair smoke of air beating like blood in the call of tired feet
coming home as usual, going nowhere, foot notes stinking
and singing fish on yesterday's net, my hands crafty loss of sand behere
you would spell black pearls not to think on this thoughts.
Why couldn't I say I think about it ? The reason not to say is the unreal
melting with troubled gods polluted and raped by madness, I think.
The reason may be itself the story of a sacrifice not pleasant to heaven of men,
amazons in despair putting to trial and hung the girl coming to blood,
misery justice of mothers that is darkening the flour of our last mountain.
Have I said we had a mountain ? a place to meet the air in fair eyes closed
somebody to father ourselves, some rock to dance in time, never-read to us before
just come in the age of real birth, but no birth has place in worldly space,
even to be sat on the street is not permitted by this distorted fair,
tormenting womb of some goddess worst than darkening green and hibiscus,
some craft my hands made to obey, worst than idollized swords of stone men
bath in secrets and prayers, some craft of deepening spiders of lonely death,
the double binded absence in arrows trip to fear and the drying of our last tear.
There is a legend engraved in this scar my hand is caressing
just my hand understand so let it caress the legend in your scar.
A girl liveth and giveth her love and kissed the mouth of men,
what else could my hand discover all over flesh than nudity of pain and pleasure ?
take yourself the measure of your pain, and taste the pleasure of a milk and poverty legend.