in the desert of wait ting/ting
nobody gets it
the essence of absolute filth
and treble
vines of existence
performance for all sects
layers of skin to pop
the syrupy dunes
the inside of a cheek
talk is formal
and base
lowest adult male
coarse tough fiber from palm
our hands are arthritic
fixed lost and held over
into the following chord
we scratch across the sands
scale the seizure
the immediate terrain
stretches of sandpaper
stroking perfect skin
i am silent and setting
w/hands folding
before my flabby egyptian
pharoahs are very heavy
akin to one of the harvest
limbs of the in/chain
at peace w/the solid fold
impossible not to worship
imparable as to damage
impartable as to message
scrawled on the surface
of the desert of waiting

confession i read thee
like the will of the quaran
see that you greet me w/the sense
of a long stream of piss
i love and love the infinite
split and amoral heart
several chambers pumping
filled to capacity
like the ballroom of a masked hotel
the lovers withdraw
the lovers revolve
slow manikin profile
twisting skeleton positions
their eyes meet
there is no time for kisses
the sky is modest and sweet
as they excoriate passions
thru the profile of movement
love manifestoes en frescoe
the hacked enclosures
of blessed and incarnate rogues
skins of saints and rugs of prayer

the blue walls of the vase close in on me.
draw me into liquid shadows. lapis and limb
and cringing shadows suggesting nude entrances.
sadness projects a crystalline massa. a large wet
tear. a prosaic vessel housing a mind which has
gone omega.

there is a chalky rotation/white and tubular
there are years of returning/of knowledge
there is refuge in incest incense and past
there is burden and truth
in the shaved arteries of future

in the desert of wait ting/ting
no/one gets anything
i beg you to give me leave
do not bury me even as your kingdom
goes temple to journey
leave me no space
in your little boat
to pass from life to life and life
be content w/this letter
and a handful of feathers
do not rescue me
i crave another destiny
the ghosts of our love
are drying
or dying
or worse.

_Patti Smith
[Babel – 1978]