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I FOXHOLES (the last dancer to get it)
around the edge of mirrors (mirror thought to be time space)
and self becomes the text
I am planting the remains of Rizzi
it is a perfect mistake
no weather in literature
my politics as a criminal in hiding; I saw nothing
but from the viewpoint of a lunatic I saw everything before it happened
we all have a target
to steal the minds of the 21st century
the great dog left in the gutter bleeding knowledge
into the sewer and the faithful artist running down the streets
screaming Oh my body is sold too cheap,
my vision was mistaken for the head of the Messiah
( no name can be mentioned until twilight )
II FOXHOLES ( the last dreamer to get it )
if a war began in your soup, say on a dull Sunday
and the whole world refused to believe that your end
could make a difference to a system that chews generations
of people and the problems of love are only small matters
when things are done for, let’s say, a revolution without cause.
I salute and then destroy
bring me all your naked money fast for a better world
of course we could even make believe that there is still ways in and
out of windows for jumping away from the struggle of existence
in a new suit and a new hat and a new life
III FOXHOLES ( the last talker in the nude to get it )
my lover turns the night into her cries
I die in the idea of blood
wash my naked face away from the dust
your voice haunts the sick mind of your danger
I am wounded and lost in some building
I smell from your music, sung low and long,
and when it ends the beautiful bystander will buy
our remains to eat as a cake before the day is over
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