Tuesday, October 11, 2011


The perfume vats have spilled,
flooding the streets of Florence with sweet
stink and there’s nothing I can do about it.

We don’t get paid a living wage
for what we do, her boyfriend
doesn’t do her when she needs doing,

and there’s nothing I can do
but sit and listen. There’s nothing
to be done when the cars continue

to rev and the brakes on my bike
don’t work, and the bank steals your world
away 9.50 € at a time—month in

and month out. And there’s no point
in touching the computer screen; you’re
two months out of touch, asking

for Gypsy change, wishing you were
Penny Rimbaud with a country
retreat safe enough for an anarchist

convention. And Max is dead,
a knife in his gut on the bed
where he let strangers fuck him

so as not to feel so alone
when strangers fucked him, alone
in the slow dismemberment that Psyche,

the goddess, never could have predicted;
her womb the center of an archaic worldview
Christ knew nothing about.

And your resurrection? Will it pay
these bills? Will it wash these windows
we look through? Will it make us whole

or wholesale?

Oct. 4th, 2011

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