silk light and walls like the sides of virgins
shitting;
I have burnt and burried almost
everything;
the women are as crazy as bedbugs in a roominghouse fire
and the sink is one big ivory smile kissing me
off;
I light a cigar and look upon my charming hands,
uggg.

the vanity of the flies is unbearable.
the lie of Creeley is white-painted storm shutters
hanging on hinges in New Orleans;
flies, fucks, farts;
the dart game is on and we are the
target--:
spread the chest
spread the cheeks,
look good,
take it.

in the heavenly Sunday sometime
we will paw young legs
kiss nylon knees
become pig-great and
expire. (that is
exact.)

now
mama
having burried the bodies
ripped the afternoon and wrinkled photos of
Santa Monica days
there isn't much left to
do:

pick out caskets like a new pair of shoes
and every now and then
every man needs a new pair of shoes and
the other.

a woman screams at me from the radio
she is like all the woman I have ever known
good and knifely at the same
time.

across this room of empty bottles
my soul kneels
in the center of the rug
in the center of this
room.

I get up
bat him across the head and
wait for
morning.

he says
nothing.

it is getting late for
each of us.

© Frank Silvanski