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.

Sunday, 6 May 2012

he sets his mind to unknown arts

The cripple and a preacher
lie sleeping in a doorway, stoned on vodka.
The cripple dreams a young man painting portraits:

At the sink his mother holds a herring by its tail
and with a knife she scrapes off its scales;
before the stove, smoky shades of grey define
his father's ashen beard, a smudge of scarlet, wine;
through the window are city domes and a bridge
beyond the labyrinth of his birthplace, the herring 
and tobacco, the synagogue and scriptures.

He awakes with his trousers unbuttoned
and is hard in a hand of the preacher:
he pretends he's still asleep and pictures
Pierot in a bowler hat, a fiddler at a window.

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