And in the 8th year...
You were the self-styled rain-goddess looming plumply above my copy of Vallejo,mustering spiteful tokens out of the threadbare blue. I wonder what he'd made of your subtle yet perfunctory exercise of godhood: how my most buoyant quips sank forever into your flashing, mud-colored eyes; or your tongue resembled a tin roof under a two-millennium hailstorm, while the way your head snarled at sunrise suggested an attendant whirly watched overyour feeble dreams. Not that they were bound by the stratosphere: for once uttered our words, however trivial, belong to eternity. So I rehearsed with a mouthful of white the distinctive stance of retching angels that grace Gothic cathedrals; the last hair on my head in place, I clung to the remote, tuned in the weather channel. EP.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario