In the Grand Scream of Life I’m Doing Well
I’m wild, wet, worn and woven into gossamer hung between earth and heaven in a five-star dream where angels are liberated from Satan’s loins. Somebody, a bearded lady in silken threads, beats her lashes. She’s doomed. Like a minx climbing a purple tree with no reasonable sound ringing in her ears, like the humming of bees left liberated, among fields of sweet pearls, nectar that taste of jewels. Eyes skyward, lips revealed to the wind she is light of heart, on fire and alacrity slung between night falls and moonbeams.
Sticky and sweet with summer’s accumulations, Luna languishes among clouds turning trickster. A remnant man stays ancient and under wraps like an owl’s breath liquefied. A guide drills deep down below, his smell overt. A sommelier beats with sweat. From him I’ve known all along one’s heart would be a sieve.