Monday, April 21, 2014

Spleen 68

The cock silent as lace and slow rain--
parce que personne sacks an empty palace.

Communard bones shook en rage
when students above ground
called their tombs la plage.

The banks where pretty women
smiled wide as boulevards,
singing slogans,
their eyes on young men who,
cent ans avant, buried reds sous les pav├ęs.

Realists erased the possible
avec Lacan flooded lacunae.

Entering the palace,
the cock, loud as ever,
crows.
               
                  In every intime non
                   earnest reds hear
                        Foucault.





Thursday, April 03, 2014

Atropos

             I
Above
crisp sails swell full cheek.

In white cloth,
                               bright as scant cloud
                               crossing Sun,
I pace the deck.

          II
Run blind
 threadless youth,
        heels break in time.

Hooked by form's lure,
she cuts livelier lines.