And still I cannot wake from their war (part 1)

my fountain is fused
it's wet electricity jumps
into my sandy eyes,

you enter my dream
carrying a roasting penis
and a schlock catalogue
of a dead poets hat shop,
you order a flower beret
and pay me in ghosts.

The stranger is familiar
his fingers filing my maps
under Zed for Debra,

the whites of her stripes
are painted deepest black,
she is saddled and ridden
through my garden bed,

spewing dollar notes
from her gun barrel
Betsy Ross ass-hole,

golden Hollywood musicals
washing down the stinking
of sand soldier heroes with
unresolved dominant chords.

Here sex deletes my private numbers
plus un-pastes my lower cased names
from loves upper-cased address book.

Here sex buttered my mouth
and slipped me the slippy finger
and having winked me off moved on
or so the moving finger reamed to me.

Love blew back chunks of heart
a passionate vomited lush tongued
relationship wiped from my lips,

the fast mouth on the slow grapes
of Steinbeck's wrath left this cocky
Trotsky teaser screaming for more,

and before gentleness and barbarism
I am paper to their scissors, scissors to rocks,
the feel of my skin left like yellow lampshade
my baby teeth bleeding like freshly pulled ivory.

And still I cannot wake from their war.


John G.Hall(C)2005