Urban barbarians
with boisterous oysters
wearing cigarette
epaulettes dine;
devil’s food
falls on angel hair
at the motel
in God’s eye,
myth’s abyss gives
the night a kiss
behind a hotel
of self where
the dogs
of time cry
those toothsome
howls,
a baby
scowls
alone at
a fine machine
where coins are years
and wisdom is green.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem