Love letter to the woman who will destroy me
Oh lady whom nobody calls lady anymore
Oh statue of ash
Oh sack of steaming roses
Pull my hair down deep from ceiling vapors
Unfold the ribs from my flesh
Flesh of my flesh of my flesh unfolding
Show me the violence
Of the rivers and the tides
Show me the night in the forest full of knives
Rape the eyes of this unstable man
With interplanetary visible whispers
Don't let me escape
From your thin strong arms
Oh lady from out of time
Oh lady from far beyond love
Oh scream from all the trembling hedges
Hung with underwear and the blood
Of everyone who's ever been touched
Fill the hells of cities with your suggestions
Burn the mattresses we squatted on
When we were homeless as a pile of rocks
Fill the dumpsters with the copulations of lizards
Let them slither through the stink of human trash
Until the dumps disintegrate
And the slender tongues
Flickering from every frontal lobe
Are touched by a probing immaterial finger
2 comments:
Dear Luke, I now know I would totally dishonor your poetry by pooting my filthy workingtrashfingers on them - even in Swedish, and even if I love T.H.F and textmaking and wordgymnastics and headshaking. It would just not be appropriate.
Clara
You can put your 'workingtrashfingers' (you must be a poet, to come up with a phrase like that) on anything of mine. Anything you do is appropriate, here.
Of course, I don't expect you to translate my poetry into Swedish, if you don't want to. But I'd love to hear from you again.
peace
Luke
Post a Comment