Saturday, March 03, 2007

Mouvements Perpetuels

after Poulenc

A stair runs down. The rain lets up.
An idea turns to brand.
Tomatoes ripening on a stalk
are plucked and canned.

A wrinkled rug. A wrinkled face.
Waves straighten on the strand.
Then I think of fucking you,
your dick in my hand.

A star burns out. A star caves in.
An aeroplane must land.
Tomatoes ripening on a stalk
are plucked and canned.

A spinning top spins to a stop.
The last song by the band.
Then I think of fucking you,
your dick in my hand.

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