the interrogation mark

In the wee wee hours of the morning,
suppressed by the unlikely clamps
of night and day,
all of the wins you're scoring
are meanwhile turning into lamps
unburning,
and words that mouths mislay
in their routine yearning
to find a hook,
most likely by the rib,
will find their heaven in a crib,
or in a book.

A pair of early feet
run their scale down, out, in to the street.
I dare say I know what feet they are.
Another wisdom cautious, catlike,
one night standish, star
shaped ash-tray, tempted, emptied and exempt
from memory unrented.
Thus, morning makes misses into ma'ams,
turns muscles into hams, arms false alarms
with lettuce, - why lettuce of all things, -
because it rhymes with let's use this,
in the oui oui hours of the morning.

The ground yields its welcome stinks
to the shovel.
The world's a church turned brothel.
The spirit in its most stark repenting form
rules absolute. The hand that once was warm,
with finger kisses
restores me back to norm.
Lo, the doorbell rings.
I don't answer rings. I never will.
They all come down pretty much the same,
the lot. So alien to anything I claim
to be just one little moment still
to thrust my paper cap on their bare head.
Why should I pray by someone long gone dead,
the insignificance of soil fertility, or
elements disposal, like before
the wee wee hours of the morning, -
day comes, stout, stark
enough to utterly ignore

the interrogation mark


20 апреля 2016 г.