Louise Seen by Lightning Writing by lightning to the fetish skeletons a flash: bombazine gown. Two words where the words don't be yet. Everything comes down in thunders and dongs Air Force Hednesford, dolts run at a line of sandbags, yell at their bayonets. I can't. Stroll. Idly prick a bag, whistle a tune to the hessian man, the would-be Russian, the would-be Egyptian. Year of '56, Nasser reclaiming Egypt's land, midnight lava red in the canal zone, He, the satan, the obstacle recovers terrain from would-be would-be heavenly foreigners and their bombers. Then Ampere's ripped from head to toe, rattle of mitrailleuse, bombs and thunder guns, gottabe a British terrorbe, plane-shape fetish of squadrons in night-lust of property laws Egyptian beds on fire, lightning over Suez, Eden sends a rain, bomb craters scatter like black gowns. In that flash you find Louise you find her in the creases Michel always enemy of Edens: flash, there's her charcoal forearm levelling across sandbags rifle at same old motherfuckers, harpy at the barricades, the Commune's Red Virgin, skeleton in, I have a photo, pouty old age, bombazine gown.
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