THE 400 BLOWS
My own four hundred blows erupt with bb gun punctured windows driving by, glass cubes hold a whole reflection like fractured hologram, which I have never understood Cantos bulk up the waves because I'm not doing so well these days with Persephone and the lamb; sheep dog holds back lolling lik e tongues glass cubes Committed to the deep saves shoes, erupted flows odor with Persephone penetrated seeds cracked open and counted for days, reverberate dogs held back, sticks from several I dream this hill in reverse that the image is less likely and waves, tears to my eyes, informal, swept the ring Scuffling in the dirt her premonition thuds consciousness pan right for purer composition Clouds rise from shoes struggle rings scud outwards, my man Cantos draft pregnant sails, She moves away crablike. Grant's measure, Neitzsche, and others claim her life this blow follows hard on the hee ls of the lolling dirt, dark rich deep cool soil. No further endings, mere, horse Mom, sea never to sell not ever so you can sleep here under the coup number. The hare is a perverse lover like young restless boys, sublimate this horse and sea cuckold, left out girls for the other ending military academies, clinks, vache, blow me.
|The East Village Poetry Web