One Tuscan sausage, the memory
of a park bench, a cold one, on an October
afternoon, well after noon, with Cameron
Diaz sitting on it, and policemen interested
in it, and an egg near it.
This will be our dinner, dear oysterperson,
dead fantasiaman, dear ludohead.
This will be the grub, and nothingness will not,
and we will grab our biros greedily
as we grab now, you more speedily
than I, and we will look at the water,
dark by now, and remember and forget existence
entire. We will look at the dark water
and remember and forget existence entire,
and in the water in the dark, and existence
entire will be forgotten remembered, and so on…
And so many, so many tulips, which are birds,
will sing as loud, and as liquid, as edgeless
and endless as lice on life’s skullskin.
We will open our books on the ledge
of a roof, tickle each other, run around
a bit, wedge our fingers in the air-con,
conjugate this Spanish verb and that Spanish verb,
until nighttime deflates, into and from the pink promise
of a trumpet played badly for too long to too many people.
The world will exist extremely. The particles of liquid
on the stream of liquid will brew a storm
of arias, unleashing the easel, and everything else
onto the many-cornered, many-flavoured noise
which happens for longer than is necessary,
by which I mean forever – flute-like.
by Col. Baldwüllz