Saturday, April 24, 2010

never born a gypsy

Longing for never been born
a gypsy raised  -
mother too drunk
and daddy too merry
- in grass and mud
to fend names and blood
lines far run
stretched and wove,
into sails and coats
too bright and severe
for fear of unbreakable curses and unsaid oaths,
             a history known as tales and dreams
to washed and wished out
on the canvas tents of nomadic trains
so thrashed by sea waters
smeared by sooty winds.

Having kept soundless by starlight -
    tears unbrazing centre fire -
after ravished nights heard to be ignored,
a tumble of coloured sobs
carping beside the kitchen van,
a knife so close, defense so far,
screaming in waves too mad
cackling at smeared eyes
   kissing blood blighted lips,
gluttonous, devouring infected young-flowers
now crushed under wheel
for a show-horse harness and lead.

Whinnies beat out in time
   (trepidation by drum
    fantasy in tambourine)
until fused so deep the coats look clean,
dresses primed for sale.


Posted via web from Taschen Foto

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