A Sunday Drive

which thunders out from the sun, wave after tsunami;

the ocean is level and hot and excessively splendid,

stale as a puddle,

edged by a shoreline smelling of crap.

The city resembles a city

besieged out and consuming;

the smell of smoke is all over,

floating from the hills of rubble.

Every so often another pinnacle,

effectively recolored, lifts from the tangle;

the vehicles slow down and howl.

From the trampled earth rubble emits

furthermore, cottages of tin and distorted sheets

furthermore, fabric and anything searched.

Everything is the shade of earth

but the kites, red and purple,

three of them, shuddering brightly

from an incline of trash,

also, the ladies' dresses, cleaned by one way or another,

vaporous and splendid, and the loyal

white grins of the kid homeless people

who kiss your little change

also, press it to their heads and hearts.Uncle, they call you. Mother.

I have never felt less nurturing.

The moon is in charge of this,

goddess of increment

also, passing, which here are the equivalent.

Why attempt to reclaim

anything? In this labyrinth

of denounced substance without starting or end

where the mash of the body steams and swells

what's more, produces and duplicates itself

the astute man picks serenity.Here you are shown the should be heavenly,

to wash a great deal and live separated.

Entombment by flame is the last benevolence:

rot is held for the living.The want to be adored is the last hallucination:

Surrender it and you will be free.