Tenement Aura

You have found us, again

Squared mob huddled round your rusty barrel

Smothered in the coarse coal night

Burning the embers still born in a world and word heavy with neophyte

Thick with your guttural yawn-

There is nothing new here.

 

Perhaps the warmth of a motif

The wisdom of undulated slum bricked utterance

The trophy stuck under vast pastures,

Your fickle ghoulish audience

Standing clamored

True;

  You have given us eyes of quill

   Sewed our senses into corn

  Bushed the bile into bile spreads of

               Anthropocentric wombs

Still-born

Crying Dadaism’s into a mirror

You have bound us to the salt

To the Red tide infinite

A Vaseline fly in a flask

Otherwise filled with the origin of

Sun-

 

In the corner booth…

The big-tongued waitress calls out my name

She pours “Le Parade” into Picasso

Causing me to fall up to the cubes of checkered floor

There I am tile

There I am slit into a trillion pieces

Still aware:

In the after breath of every day

She has become my last glass of god.

Author's Note

New version of older mind