Only if Sunday Monday follows and your box
bed springs – not hard grief^ridden like in Mali where
grass roof elders trust the lizard’s scan^dart
slow twitch . bead counting over digits.
Even happy heifers wouldn’t sweat the difference –
milk for the village v. plaisir congelée, expiration
fate.
*
Elsewhere, first
impressions still nick | the face remove from flesh
cuts twilight coding : the perfume line, wiggly blue
crab ink.
Virtually you could still send
bitch nights off ‘n’ running, underwear reversible;
else little left, reach for the phone.
*
Our tech gods promise level
heavening . with diode street lights refit the midnight
sky – unless you’re in Chile where in the thousands
stars beam back mate orbiters . given up for lost.
/ One click . now latitudes strip
make it quick^unbelievable | feminin shaved
masculin, no index finger smear.
Whoa! hold
your ma-hu . there should be room for everyone.
/ Okay! knife ‘n’ spread begetters, over
there | done fasting ? for full beard, lacy lip
bliss napkins | oh, big plate of applause for four
post chompers, rarely out of order.
– W.W.
QAT
*ONE of these cats Qat calls Singer, respecting
His Asiatic operatic complaints
About what no vet has yet identified.
Perhaps he misses an old home, or his balls,
Or he is your Wandering Jew still needing
To wail the Lord’s song in his latest strange land,
Driving Qat’s neighbours (and other cats) to grind their teeth.
But Qat’s proud of her lourd loud sad catstrato
Who still interrupts his arias to keep
Purring watch over his Ladyship’s fucking.
(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 