Being homunculus, I lower my head.
I scrape off the cobblestones
of My Masters.
In front of: some dirt of another creature.
Behind: such
Their Pastoral Dusts.
Self-confident, My Author changes level,
Imprinting
His Way ten meters lower,
Forgetting my existence in this cold gutter.
By my
guesswork, it’s very high this bottom!
My steps... Old ones are bones, new ones are
fleshes. The call
Of life is this void. Like a scalpel,
My body is going
on the ground but doesn’t reach it.
I fly. I wave by fine strokes of small of
my back.
The Lords acclaim me as a sovereign.
There, this girl who serves
the meals...
----(epilogue)-----
She makes you bag of bones. You remain
stunned.
Her eyes aren’t satin-like for you.
Won’t ruin you about these fiascos.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!
Denis
(July 24,
2005)
(From my snap in July 21)
© IDDN 2005
