i see lore's ass in the round
like a play about a baker
is it winter?
darklies dance in the snow and fog
near a circular fireplace that
echoes their round asses
dance in your pants
or sing in the vile air
what a pain to be so sane!
on their knees, five 'grandchildren'
now watch the baker make them
out of heavy blonde bread
his arms look weird and white
when he stuffs the grey paste
into the glowing empty hole
are we listening to bread baking,
or the fat baker smiling
while singing an old tune?
the bread children are standing there
in the oven which looks
just like a red hot breast
we leave
the sparkling yellow bread
at midnight
later, probably
crickets will invade the fragrant crusts
under smoky beams
hot breast hot hole
happy soul
beneath rags
they feel so good living
the poor little frosty breads
they are all there.
pumpernickel friend
could a poet play a harp
and ride a wild boar?
is a breast
a red hole
for weird white babies?
i get into the red hole
i'm rags
i'm bready for anything bakers!
a perfumed gryllus
must live in the hollow
of a humanoid loaf.
I can
see
its affairs.
