It was good getting drunk in the undulant city.
Whiskey lopping off the day's fear.
Dawn came with an element of Xanax.
Dusk came and I dumbed myself down.
Where there were brides, grooms—
these bored boysoldiers with iPhones and guns.
I'm a soft target, you're a soft target,
and the city has a hundred hundred thousand softs.
The pervious skin, the softness of the face,
the wrist inners, the hips, the lips, the tongue,
the global body,
its infinite permutable softnesses.
*
Soft targets, soft readers, drinkers,
pedestrians in rain—
In the failing light we walked out
and now we share a room with it
(would you like to read to me in the soft,
would you like to enter me in the soft,
would you like a lunch of me in the soft,
in its long delirium?).
The good news is we have each other.
The bad news is: Kalashnikov assault rifles,
submachine guns, pistols, ammunition,
four boxes packed with thousands of small steel balls.
*O you who want to slaughter us,
we'll be dead soon enough what's the rush.
And this our only world.
As you can see it has a problem.
As you can see the citizens are hanging heavy.
The citizens minds are out.
Eros, Eros, in Paris we stayed all night
in a seraphic cocktail haze
despite the blacked-out theater,
the shuttered panes.
Tonight we're the most tender of soft targets,
pulpy with alcohol and all a-sloth.
Monsieur can we get a few more?
There are unmistakable signs of trouble,
but we have days and days still.
Let's be giddy, maybe. Time lights a little fire.
We are animal hungry down to our intricate bones.
O beautiful habits of living, let me dwell on you awhile.
No comments:
Post a Comment