The Italian Prisoner
A trickster singing a song from a tree's branch
Big the boat that holds the strangled poetry's symbol
Little arrow point to me hold down my New York symmetry
Everyone is an anti-orgasm anti-climax merchant
Smashing the bed head against the needle and pin
I am the old man fearing the bottle and the open window
Where does the camera lie, who shot the glass from the head?
Relaxing because the days are passing and money is bread
1 is the fire, 2 is the fuel, 3 is the smoke, 4 is the rain
He sam me coming and I saw the nudge in his jeans
Canyons of masterpieces echoing the songs of S.Y.
I read the letters from the white shirts in Mexico
Enough was talked of, enough was said, but nothing of the flashing light
Blisters broken, worked to the Friday, the birthing room was destroyed
I have a sleepy poet in my mind, sailing with his brother the wind
Did we ever get it together? sleeping on our sides in the fateful weather?
The corner store was where the play germinated
Teddy gave Kitty 10 geraniums, they smelt of ancient kingdom
Be a know-all, in italics, in a font unknown
The teachers crucified the sailor set, stole the tickets and burnt the letter
Although there is nothing left the plane landed, where is the gun?
Who will profit from the language? Who will profit from the street and skyscraper?
We threw sheets over our head, we hid behind yellow patterned curtains.
The night is far away, the night is bitter, A panic in may
Fingers on the thigh, fingers on the bread, fingers on the dial
I think the soldier came to light the fire with his syringe
I think the lightening bolt raped the poet's poor tree
Did you receive the message written in ink on the church wall?
The chisel is blunt and the anvil is blind
Fruit bowls are painted as are the fruits I am painting the truest colours
Africa sinks while the radio antenna lies in pieces
Closing my eyes I think of the shoes that were found floating in the waves
A state of shock is better than a state uncrossed
Take your glasses off and become a stained glass window
I want your distress, your unease, the panic you catch and spread
Records sing my knowledge for the pleasure of the old lady
Nobody read this for the happiness of your kin
For this is dedicated to the Italian prisoner
And nobody else besides
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