Since withdrawn from his presence my feet are not newspaper
wrapping starfish of mist. Shade-travelled Moabite

who listens to his radiant tiara, sometimes a shop
plays for a slurping bloodflower from one's handkerchief,

mixing in the weeping star. To know me is to look forever
into the fire. The windowstripper goes out

perfumed with ancient breadheads, the slats of which a cavern
over the air shall prostrate. We were shadowed trails

of their secretly crimson auras. You are ectoplasm
that passing the minority into a vision eyes

the ocean of intuition. You are swooping
to snatch at Siberia the trees yourself. Out there,

items; in here, a stork on fire, a valley's
light in maelstroms of primal beauty, a lovely

ship whose every movement is like steam.
Eidolons that hurl me sit here with the two freedoms.

When they drift in space. Doctor Robert's lost;
they've ancestors. The ground beneath the parable

of you is mostly in the forest. Sometimes
a photograph of relations is a seraglio

of birds of curiosity, sometimes a mouching
of colors redolent of India ink. What surrounds me

as much as men and women and space? I've heard that
shadows wearing your lost candlewax are intolerable

to sick people; therefore, wrap in waves of ribbon
our India ink. It knows a thousand years of

the grey, and faeries leaving luminous our dances
like waiting. Cries from the depths may see newspapers

like us as we drop me. Secrets dream minor newsblossoms,
and my eyes project jewellers there. Lovely

mountain of faces your navel speaks, let's fly
through us with hair ablaze. The last kisses blown

at us are of us atop a column that occupies.






photo depicts William S. Burroughs