I usually boast that I am from the 19th century
but reality dawned yesterday
really I am from the middle ages,
evidence: these latest attempts to avoid falling in love
trying from a hiding place in a cloud to lower a bucket
from the corruptor sun
and shower acid down on the pomegranate tree
whose branches unfurled with fruit
from our embrace in the night-bar
unto the iciness of lunar light in the Argentine winter,
the night Videla died
I am ruthless as the king of the pomegranates
and a megalomaniacal jackal for the comparison
They should have made Videla kneel in corn
for twelve December heatwaves
At my hospital-white computer, the social-hope-generator,
the cinema porno reels gyrate as saws
against new branches and entanglements
in the pomegranate tree of lovers,
smaller than a porcupine it contains a copy of the planets in its dew drops
I seek to impose a government, forgetting anarchisms
I walk around in the day attempting to dream the anti-dream
Fall asleep while making childish vows in anguish to avenge the Bulgarian actress in the fuck film
who does not need my saving and knows what to do,
for breakfast break a pomegranate
one turns out fresh, three are rotten on the inside
I hurry to an encyclopedia of dreams, papyri in Christian-human skin.
Among desert peoples who spoke their dreams into lamb-skulls
a rotten pomegranate meant an unchaste woman
I eat rotten dreams and hope for breakfast
all this was an attempt to control anyway.



pomegranate papyri

pomegranate papyri by Karen Christine Hibbard



5 responses to “Poemgranat

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