Ah! If you like your nightcap
the queasy islet by coconut milk...
Ladies, it’s going limp harshly
And the nauseous sleep in echo...
Doctor, get me out of this
Draw strings to the diet of the pleasures
Towards the shed
Because the Frank flees to the subway to turn
Ah! If the arms of the sofa rock you,
The sickly moon pours
way of darkness under each step.
Disconcerted, I crouch in the bus,
being able to answer about this scaena-morbus.
Oh! The crisis of belief
Denis Between The Rusty Words
(August 16, 2005)
© IDDN 2005