The flight

Songs of Travel

I’m walking past
The row on row of gilded diamond plastic
And magic instruments
Designed for kings and sold to pigs,
And giant naked gods all bulging with omnipotence,
And then their black-eyed priestesses
Who tease me with their drugged ecstatic lips.

Well I walk past that siren song.
I spoil myself with a glass of Morelino
And some smiling farmer’s cheese and ham.
And wonder whether anyone around the trough
Would taste the liquids of his lopped off limbs
In the mozzarella juice
Spilling down their chins.

And then I’m looking down
At pretty two dimensioned beads
Threaded so delicately on iron lines
And tiny frail shells
In endless flow and rows
That move and shelter all those million hermits
Within the circuitboard topography below.

Just show to me the future –
I will harass it like a yapping dog
And eat its throat out like a cold eyed wolf
And I will rummage through its hot entrails
And in my hands I’ll bring to you
Its beating heart…
But this is not blood –
Just the juice of wild strawberries.

– o –

this is an old one, from before we moved to Italy, which somehow i never posted.  turns out, they have wild strawberries here…

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