The old woman who slid the pan
Of cookies into my brain's oven
Never came back. The cookies
Turned into black dots that float
Across my vision. I reek of burnt
Dough. I lie on my side like a
Buffalo who's reading Hegel
On a parched Kansas plain.
Invisible merchants empty
Microscopic vats of hot slime
On my neck and forehead.
A thin woman with cold fingers
Tickles my spine. Cute.
A chorus of angelic rats
Prevents me from nodding off.
I raise one hand
To conduct the performance
And pass out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem