LLorona
It is when her dress tear
that I realize
this has no end
To her
we are all brown chairs
and hands
left by a restless dance
The eye wipes itself
behind the enlarged ear
and the tongue
heavy with wax
now singing
with her
even after she falls backwards
on stage
A man dressed as an eightlegged kettle enters
to teeth clapping
out of rhythm
He then collapses
and they carry him off
Damn him
How hard is it to be a kettle ?
Is it that fucking difficult to wear a dress?
Is nothing safe anymore?
Poetry by Lourdes
Read 1239 times
Written on 2006-12-05 at 21:45
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