Written in the air, somewhere between Japan and Canada.
blows a whistle
the factory stops
and all the workers spill
out of my ears
chanting vive la liberté
and gabriel garcía márquez
the smokestacks rise
above their tenements
they go back
their worn hands
like the hands of clocks tell time
outside
a boy and a girl
play in a green field
i can smell green says the girl
says the boy i can smell nothing
hair slicked back
pink tongue
sticking out
the maître d' dances like an angel
on the head of a pin
rock scissors paper pen polite cough
all inventions
of the man
spending the day
colouring the heart on his sleeve
black
and red
if you understand this poem
i will write you a song
on the leaves of grass
for a thousand years to be sung
to a string quartet played by sylvester stallone
and the workers that came
out of my ears
would roll back to the factory tiers
so as to not mistake can't for canto and mist for mystery
if you didn't
Once I find the time from my autoerotic activities, I hope to read more of your poetry. It seems very coherent to me these days. I don't know if that's because it's better than what you used to write or if I have simply become more receptive to poetry. Maybe a little bit of both? Good poem.