THIS WAVY INATTENTION
Everything in the National Bank.
Closed up. The old building falling
into ruins; a currency with no more
circulation. Mr. Folderol, the perverted
bank clerk, playing his solitaire with a
deck of pale cards : a naked boy's
picture on the back of each one. His
mind is out of control : the mineshaft,
in pitch blackness, with a spear
in each fisted hand.
-
I want to play your Ezra Pound.
I wish to sing your Chopin.
I dare to drive your
open carriage. I
wish for you
to let me in.
I wish for
you to
let me
in.
No comments:
Post a Comment