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My ex-stramping-ground
is today a strem of the past fouled by soot and oil.
All praise to your tireless folk
deep in materials and tools
who are given to rebelling
for the sake of bread
snatched from the iron
from pitiless machines
from the cas-drawer.

Generations of curses
have blackened its gates and walls.
Its gargantuan chimneys feed smoke to passing clouds.
In that place
no flower
no bird.
It`s a landscape
only men bear.

My ex-stamping-ground
wellhead of my feelings my protests
I never left you entirely behind.
I have still no gold-rimmed glasses
no white collar no black bow tie
I still don`t qawp at shop-fronts
vibrating with lace panties and blood-red nail-varnishes.
My glance \
Keeps your unmistable laws.

You still live in my
shaky lung my
ten fingers the curve
of my bent back
and my 1500 poems
born in my heart
flowering red-and-black,

Often I turn as ! go
and see with opened eyes with serener eyes
I see you are no longer stone and iron monster.
You wash yourself in waves of light
and dry yourself with cloths of smiling
you vomit your dirt out
like a sated dirt-cater
and you switch on the lamps
and you make beds for those that need them.
You are not now
quite so pitiless
not now so damned.
When workers enter you
they areot braced for torments
nor are those who leave you ready to run from the world.

My shoulder on a pillar I watch
the streets lie down in front of them
the hoiswes give them shelter.-



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This entry was posted on May 13, 2011 by in Uncategorized.
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