Silver orbsNightly issues, sprinting bushes in the forests,
Little, gay men wearing silver orbs on their feet,
like lady Tinkerbelle – selling bullshit to the virgins,
While old, sweet Virgil is just listening, writing it all down.
Let's have a cup of tea, Sir. Of course I was never married.
Of course I'll never be a wife or step over an altar,
Like a racing horse, jumping over the fence,
Leaving the ring behind, breathing itself out of a dream,
Not able to see sideways, eye bras don't make it blind.
Drop bombs on the traitor, throw a grenade, don't hesitate,
Don't think anything over, burn the maps -
They are nothing but erasers of spontaneity.
Bring him over the edge, forget the feathers at the doorway.
Life can be a marvellous thing, like a Roman fountain
Seeing bubble bells, swallowing them with mouth wide open,
Not noticing the dead pigeons floating up from the bottom -
Thirst over, time to vomit – look at their bloody eyeballs!
Hold up a pen, there's my erection, come with every line:
Drowning in fluid, Francesca G. Luca – woman till the bones,
Till the beginning of the toes, let's get some nail polish -
Fiery red, fiery red, high heels until she's on a bed
Hallucinating of a battle field, burning bodies on sheets –
Paper, cotton, silk – what does the material matter,
As long as the colour is black? - forget the sunshine,
Pull the curtains back, no need to let emotions overrule,
Haven't they caused enough damage – down the trash!
Lose all contact with the outer world, follow the hidden wound,
Don't let doubtful hate cross the law of patrimony,
What is given by blood is inerasable, but you sure can tie it up
And throw a towel over it, let it be with laces –
It will hurt none the less, open endings are the best,
They can be filled up, like women who's legs
are constantly in the opening mode,
Don't turn the lights off, let's see to where their noises are pointing.
Hit by a giant hammer, without holding back your strength,
While the wind keeps asking what's the matter;
The reply stays away, stays away as a lullaby
A child is expecting to come out of his dead mother's mouth.
Don't be sad baby, mommy died, don't be bad baby –
It's not like she would have cared..
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 552 times
Written on 2007-02-05 at 20:07
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