poem 25/10

Hardly ever managing
To process the energies we find,
The danger of humans come
To you; hard like a brick
With your face on,

I saw someone
Wrapped up in a towel,
And we sat around in a circle,
The smoke constricting my lungs
Like a Peruvian Boa –

A dead man with a whiskey in his hand
A coffin with a whiskey on top,
Remember sitting around drunk
Dressed up dead from feet swinging –
Flames flickering like an epileptic candle,
Death with its glasses on
Takes off its clothes
And professes in the Indian Groves.

In a glowing Ankor corridor
We surpass tone-deaf muses
Their manner dragging knuckles and feet
To some kind of god damn tree-worship.

I hope she soothes the weather soon,
A turban to dry, a hand begging for tears,
A quick body – shoe-shaped –
Lying around in light of electric storms.

The rival full of doubt like a priest,
The death has always been machinery –
It crackles and explodes.