softnote saxophone
botex for the soul,
strained faces only
held together by skin,
gluteal muscles for
nylonhearts and sweaty collars
porcine, popeyed
each mouth fallen open
like a gallow`s trapdoor,
the delight at a
big dame battleship
built in stereo
that makes aftershave
boil under matching ties;
littlemen reduced to red.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem