They had found, finally,
Michelangelo's Hercules
buried in a copse in France,
and had loaded it aboard
the ship for a long
journey to Rio.
Brazil, it had been known
was a structure like a bird
attached by a tentacle
to her stomach. Its blind,
sensitive head, and breast
were long on their way
to a too luminous Pink.
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The ship bled forward
for many nights, the centaurs
on the brandy bottles.
Old Italy.
Hercules. Its boot fitted with
magnet would slide as a puck
in the storms. The captain,
with his one strange eye
peering out into infinitely
dense nets of limp tissue-like
emtiness, or complicity,
a hand that gives water
to the sick.
Hercules, hung like a fetish
with Mexican and Brazilian
cellphones.
Rio. James Bond.
All gone underground
into a lava of Mexicans.
The Arrabiata, or rabid
arabs, dressed like
Frenchmen on the moors,
long cold blunderbusses
of ice-tea
waiting for hotties.
Anton Gill, Red Baron.
Bacon.
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Mad and delicious.
ReplyDeleteI need more readers like you Gerry!
ReplyDelete:)
I dig that you have the nerve to fearlessly push language to the outer limits. Hell, what's the worst that could happen? There's a cool gray area that lives between sense and non-sense which is where I think poetry ought to live. I'm always trying to balance right on that spot. There might be some misses but, when the hammer hits the anvil just right, man what a beautiful ringing sound in my ears. One good ring is worth a thousand or more misses.
ReplyDeleteI agree!
ReplyDelete