Rainboat Casanova

what is this mood
to write and have sex?
oh the lists
go on
cusps of pricks
erected to the most
high God
trepidation in the
fast-moving hand
of this prophet.
the Psalms were
hymns of sand and gold.
and you
with your tassels
and tattered pages
curse the fig tree
abundant of innocence.
The Sun is the father now.
And Zhet
is the misunderstood valiant,
waiting his turn
for a much shorter Kingdom,
but a bright one
you can believe!
just to write lots of nonsense.
roll tongues over lollipops
in the mud-summer night,
and dance by rivers
with the pale ones as lanterns
and the ebony
reflecting moonlight in their teeth.
take it all in
Rainboat Casanova.
Formica Spectacular,
circular
ready to name the mood
or read off the list
of puckered lips.
Sensation be damned
If by that I mean
end all life.
For I am forever
carnal
and wanting
in organic spirit
or illustrious flesh

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