Don’t sing while listening:
This is the empty cage of my body-
This is the husk of my pretty
Song bird
Thrust like the coal of a present at the footsteps
Of your door:
Oh- lo- don’t sing for these pretty amusements
Anymore:
While another day comes up through the
Chimneys and bagpipes
Of tomorrow-
While you’ve just been whistling and singing
For your supper again
Through the traffic, just as against the waves:
Don’t try to become beautiful
Anymore:
Purple enigma underneath the sun: sour bruise
In its cathedrals of starving children,
Just as in its special places in the world,
Find me out
And bight off my tongue- There is a feral child
In me,
And she continues going through the motions,
And this is just my inebriated fire for her
In the stagecraft of a prefabricated
Highway besides or beneath the impenetrable sea:
This is just how I’ve been drowning, anyways,
Just like the lucky pennies of goldfish
Swimming around the racetracks of the overturned
But still live giving Christmas tree.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem