Here, in the coughing opera we
discover the last prime number
and the secret of light,
that thing oftly described as a riddle.
The sphinx returns to Dublin
Where it is promptly shot and
Left for dead
The bitten writing and nervous hand
The King of Finland Blown to bits
Amidst the rows of steel
His face cast in tissue paper
His gasp really a laugh.
I thought I caught a glimpse of him
Rushing to the rail station
His umbrella open in the rain.
I may have been mistaken.
The heeding minute passes
The excited pen of madness
Clutched in the Phoenix’s claw
A smartass piece of mindlessness
Inspiration missing, ball-less in the ossory
You know how the whole thing ends.
The bite-marks of history
May show the places of surprise
But not the things that leave us skinless,
Carrying useless, ugly stones up
An invincible hill
On a winter-like day.
A distant voice
Answers the flesh the
Inner door to desire.
The professor and the editor show up in New York
Trembling with the nightmares
From which they cannot awaken.
The shape of the air
The path to Hell
The skin, peeled back the breath out
The breath in.
A longing interrupted by a rude murder.
Pages of reason turn to nonsense
In a cyclone of weeping teeth
An eye is hooked by the possibility of a kiss
Even though the clever stars fall
on the street
Only to be trampled beneath mouthless song,
Feet and leg and tongue designs
For looking invincible.
The fellows at the bar twitch unspeaking
Barely hanging on by
The skin of their dreams
While you and I, south of talent,
Pretend we are the same
Dressed alike in skins of goat