20 Dec 98 | Creases

Hairless men, with closed eyelids,

sitting silently in a room full of unfinished, wooden doors.

This large prism, containing yellowing viscous fluid,

over this blue table of yours, is busy showing refracting small, green beans…

shaped like little fingers.

         An inverted brown table, out in this dry grassland with fine brass wires,

to switch off cremation of glittering faces.

Doors with a picture of god with [a few] snakes like tongues.

Trapped blue flies mixing in the sky, with boxes shaped like other boxes.

Windows opening out to the street of fools, with red, swift latches.

       Electric bulbs with balloons, fog, crushing sounds.

Dangerous little dwarfs with cross-stitched arms

watching every body switching on their wings in front of millions of schizophrenics,

none of who cares to die.