Last Poem Of The Century
Semolina pilchards
Walk silent in rows
The sad, beat century drawing to a close
Happy to bounce out the door
The dancing ghost places the crown of teeth upon her head,
Her face sunken and old
Gratified, in the middle of a forest
The soluble alchemy-
A new generation of men with four left feet, maybe three
Brown blues for white people, I cannot see
I awoke from a sad dream, full of glee
But my knees are silent
25,000 monkeys used 25,000 typewriters
Played flutes like drums
Held their breath while passing cemeteries
Never stop going till’ they get there
Empty souls no longer worry
Raining holy water
God is bathing
In
Warmth
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