Flowers of Bad
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Flowers of Bad

< these poems | those poems >

To Santa Claus

I want to build a boat that blinks prettily for you Santa, my maid and waitresses

Phones me in Autumn from far underground to tell me it is fond of my derailments

And the primary cause of why there is a black nickle in my breast pocket

Lando Calrissian would polish every monday morning with due regard to my doggy’s collection of turtleneck sweaters.

One nickle, shiny blue and in the doorway with the mailman, singing

[I think that at this point I would like to go home and drink an entire bottle of red wine.]

While you dress yourself. As asses go, yours is more like a statue of the Chrysler building than an old sailor’s

With a green Polish policeman, I climb the trellis to finish feeding the cats another time

Porn star understands the astrophysics rings the glass with a green algae

I make a wicked dog in iron inside your ear. In walks the large man saying Let’s cool one, cigars

And in the lane of jealousy no more toll house cookies for Santa

The samurai is now the tailor, a manatee, a falcon

The Barbary Coast peels the rind from a gourd and doubles his soup spoons

Doors, locks, handles. A little war. Your charm bracelet makes nurses sick at the academy

None of the pearls brocaded into your corn husk sing out for my cowboys

Terrorists in bathrobes seize Clara Barton’s chocolate molds. Do you sir, freeze your own coins

In Mexico singing out? Do you sir, climb monthly to the doors locks handles for ten cents?

To the points on the globe where rocks clash together, where ovaltine is served with mallomars with your feet up?

Each dream from the East of a furnace and a bathtub in the same room where every figure is white and rose

I take my ferocious dogs demanding respect to play clarinet under the liar’s club

Of satin, the flag, the numbers your feet humming along the lilies

The door the lock the handle sleep in the day time on the emperor in a mole hill a train station

There goes a mole playing fiddle around an old footprint.

If I never can become a pick-pocket a bad foie gras will sing out my our gentleman’s agreement the grocery store,

The rain falls on the protesting ballerinas at the tail end of a moan like a big quarter

 

I meet the serpent in the train station the doors the locks the handles I’m more than entrails

Underneath his talons, I have an affinity for all your fooling around in the conductor’s car

Queen Victoria and fecundity in rat hats

This monster has all gone flying of henna in his hair and of Bob Cratchet’s.

You want the truth from my thinkers, my radar range my old comely smokestacks, cigars

Before the tiny car où Autumn flourishes the day singing Queen of the cliffs,

Broken insect star where the platypus seeks his reflection painted in blue

I look at you every day with the toad’s eyes of fire

And there goes all May’s heavy love letters and half-eaten swamp frog babies

Singing out the ironed banjo sends bath oils to stop Marie

From eating the sandwiches she green sent to you from the top of a snowy whitecap,

In vapors stacked on top money is pretty orange.

 

At last, to completely explain the role of Marie in this poem

And to mix up our broken-ness with the Barbary Coast

Up flies your nighttime! September’s days fishing the capital

Staten Island sends its regrets. I built a fiery iron September parrot

With many affiliations eaten there goes their madman who won’t play mah-jong

Presented with the day’s most professional findings. Can it cry

I will plant your singings out in an iron dog’s pants pocket

In a heavy dog’s singing on a loading truck, in a heavy dog’s Russian landscape!

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