For breakfast I eat up my vowels, my a e i o u, to which I add from consonants a fricative or two;
After that I move my bowels then write as poets do, and frequently am quite surprised to feel a trill come through.

Thursday, 14 April 2011

twenty-five thousand dollar portraits

My hustler is a plastic whore
Waits on the couch for night to fall,
Anticipates the morning flesh
The need, the rush, the sticky mess.

My cowboy lives on campbells soup
And for a treat an oxo cube,
His p-stained silks I sell as prints;
They sell real well the more they stink.

My camera films him while he sleeps;
His portrait fills the screen-filled wall.
I watch the people watching watch
His eyelids dance to unseen dreams.

My killer wants her fifteen minutes,
She doesn't like to be unnamed.
A voice from fame's low altar says,
"This moment shall be infinite."

My body, bloodied, bullet torn,
Waits on the floor for death to call;
Anticipates the mourning flesh,
the loss of touch, taste, sound and stench.

My sight, the light undimmed caressed;
My star unset maintained its rise.
My life reborn the heavens blessed;
The moon, the sun, became my eyes.

My wigs, my scars, my pallid hues,
My small editions, mass produced;
Judge with grace my worldly views
And wave by buying my snakeskin shoes.

A little bit of Turkish: Yiğit (brave, hero, stalwart)
Her  yiğidin bir yoğurt yiyişi vardır.
Each brave eats yoghurt in his own way.
Turkish Proverb

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