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.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Reading Thumboo's "Ulysses by the Merlion"

Goh Chok Tong's Visit to FCBC

Steven Cantor's "What Remains: the Life and Work of Sally Mann"