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You are shot there so the red cells flower ... in Freedom Avenue you die so snow with its white cells soft and softly shroud you hide you so an ill wind won’t blow to steel you who were not of them
You are not of them your arteries are arteries of a city that which beats in Revolution Square is still your heart which sends off one by one all taxis down any street that leads like a dark vein toward my heart that is Freedom Square
We both fight in the same street you are shot there I die here
The river runs through my home that has run? Or too soon. Too soon is it to ask this rover for help? Where does the sea rive In... Or... !? You would love to tip off this boat of broken oar Or am I the wave that turns not to return? The briny sea in this far shore lacked only you my humerus do not pour such humor on this dear wound In the end this naked soul Other than that naked soul What can it be? A naked soul?
Me having love affair now with whomever And being whoever you want What do you mean you being whatever I want you to be? Or like some watermelon thrown in ice In the heat of summer For me to cry hug me I'm freezing!?
Like a child's wanting mother - ma tear Someone come like scream into my words Until when this wave pound Its head on those two mounds up there And these two crevices down here!?
The sea is still at work A wave summersaults and Alexander Returns to his sea black in the face
This dry tree how has it arranged itself so well so well ... under the rain.... to stand up? The pomegranate that’s hanging why should someone squeeze .... who knows nothing?
Why the rain that should rain down in this poem doesn’t rain?
And life.... this short lullaby.... finally puts me to sleep on a page that spent a life in ‘I don’t know’
How many times should I write the poem ... that I’ll never write? I’m sure....London’s blood group which most likely is O or doesn’t match mine because I keep hitting the rain...keep getting wet
What ecstasy revolves round this thought that’s in my mind I wish someone came to stop this Dervish that keeps twirling in my head the rain that keeps raining no longer comes to my poem
This cursed beast has brought tears to all eyes
This inquisitor who drags so much out of the clouds over London
Is someone idling up there or is it true that it’s still raining?
