Ground
Zero, zero hour –
My airplane - empty
flight.
My discotheque is a blank page in red satin.
Subsonic underlining of a poem’s riddle – to kill or
not to feel…
Is there anybody up here? EeeeHz?....
*
Reply to no
call.
The limit to my voice, voices of my sub-zero hell.
Odorless bloom ’s whiz - with a mental triangle of
danger.
Not my camera nor a scenery with waterway or yellow
paths…
Ground zero. Where my faith cooks my meals dressed up
in white for summer.
Not mine at all. Sister Clear… Sister Marya..
Mama Krishnan, Papa Christian - Oh,
Roses of Brown, neuronal connections
makes a garden of roses whisper with the south-east
enlightened blustery
...
*
Ten A.M. Oh,
I believe in Jesus, Oh – Amen, my
lord! Now I’m lift up! I’m raised!
I hope in You, in Your clothes of sludge, please let
me
touch Your golden-ruby lips - with my night’s thefts lipstick
of ancient murders and pain…
I love You. I’ll suicide everybody in Your Name
Just because - and for I’m Saved in thy family Name!
-
-
***|***
*
And you, you - reading my
verses, infidel - detect the last five, six lines up
here.
<<Is him insane, is he joking?>> Some are truth,
part – lies.
With skill and blood - marching-knight-bloodily-blood –
jerk off with a little friend of mine:
Salvador. Like Surrealism, like a city rue I visited a day,
July 1966, Sunday the spirit came in my twin bed. My
name, in that times - was Jesùs Fidèl
of
Some-Vegas’ lanes. Also not - identified, yet - Ogre
of the
Crimson
Cinema’s Balco_
ny.
Scilla ‘83
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