Pound of flesh

Paint from no easel, with your eyes,
rouge me up, 'cause I'm blueing down.
'Tis a kiss I crave? Or, a hug most friendly.
'Tis a silence, when there's no one on the line,
a sigh less than the ear can hold.
Enter, concomittant with torches and hautboys,
and what not,
The Grand Master of Absence.
Tip-toeing on anybody's feet, but mine.
You blue, he says, you blueing away.
Yessir, I'm a slave to the Pythagorean,
most dearly addicted to the plane of going off, delicate.
No one followed me to the Eve of destruction,
no one ever will, – 'what dreams we have, when we have,
no, not that albatross again thank you'.
'You are stupid, he says, stupid to think.
I have met with the likes of you on my journey from miss-ter to miss.
Evil must be exterminated when it is good. G' night monster.'
– Good night Master.

Paint from no easel, and no paints,
like lovers do, and two and two is foursome,
for some, still not the same for others.
This pound of flesh was sure cut off from sickbone.


26 июня, 9 июля 2022 г.