Village on the border, open to false travellers
Who carry no documents, just new names
Who tear at all revolutions around
Tames the local deer that turned carnivore
Maybe we can dream still of families only
All to us, with no crisis calling to the First Square of city
Marching to new bell of imposed referendum
On Black people
On Purple people if unwise to be Yellowish, sick and decaying
I cry for no land and no people
I laugh at all laborious familiarity with passive heads
Howling daggers at stuffed objects, mere playthings - Gross
In that very crowd stand my friends.
Friends. One of them is lawyer. He is very handy. Handful.
His hand rooms up my skirt to be surprised. That contortion of his horny face
Worthy of sweating Dali with his moustache against an easel
Confused to call it. Portray it. Dali is drugged.
Jennifer slays all erotics here without being nude.
Something tells me the lawyers hand is wet with sweat only
He isn't...