“every good soldier enjoys a cigar,”
Rimbaud, cross-legged, offers Guevara a spot on the floor.
enough coffee spoons to explain the temporal difference,
enough words that you won’t want anymore.
elegance, science, violence.
you’re always saying “wait.”
“they promised to bury in darkness,
that tree of good and evil.”
summer morning sun like drunkenness,
maims the hangover with a gavel.
elegance; not one for obvious violence.
you’re always saying “wait.”
began with confused laughter, maybe even how it ends,
the kettle comes with handle broken.
“hurrah for the beautiful body, hurrah for the first time,”
cheers made, but nothing spoken.
“after the deluge,” Ernesto rubs chin and pauses,
“it’s the anemic for which we shall prepare the tombs.”
“no! not quite the point,” the boy fidgets,
but still it ends with a riot of perfumes.
elegance; the science of real violence.
elegance; you’re always demanding that I wait.
elegance; you’re always demanding that I wait.
and so, I wait.
