In little sunrise of goblin eyes / I watch the coupling of the flies. / Under waving trees and bumble bees / I strain to amputate my knees. // With cockroach cutters made of mutton, / My eyes gleam green as moss jade buttons. / I will not wake from childish dreams / I cannot bear to catch the screams. // I cannot bear to catch the screams / Of bugs impacting on windshield screens. / I shave my tab with turquoise sickle, / From its stub the fishes trickle. // My stunted fingers, piss-stained knuckles, / Clogged with blood, start to buckle. / Murdered turtles, mildew, moss / Dead pets in gardens – I’m the boss! // My smile is wide in seas of cider / Pull your teeth with geese and spiders, / Cup these jaws in my hand, / Make them jig in globs of sand. // I write these words to pass the time / And stay alive – two shaves and shine / And block out the sound of chickens’ wails / Defeathering them on beds of nails. / Yeah!
La neige était sale (Luis Saslavsky, 1953)
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