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New York After Twilight

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Rhyymes over crimes 

verbs divide as knives 

plunged deep into keyboards, 

if God was drunk at the Last Supper 

the chalice fell from my mantlepiece 

 

Litte Miss Poetry came to my room 

wearing a red typewriter, did I really 

see a folded negligee on empty pages 

and would you have straddled me 

licking pearls from last breath of my skin? 

 

As the sunset comes to meet 

the evening on an internet hill, 

my cursor cries for celibacy 

and roams around Welsh gravestones. 

You were s.h.o.p.p.i.n, g 

could you have bought me? 

 

When you open your legs 

would you please think kindly of me, 

I’m simply a Mercy Man 

who places care in suitcases 

 

 

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