CORSO AND A GIANT LEAP
OF ROTTEN FLOWERS
Sometimes a petty thieve is pleased,
sometimes he meets amazement;
his writings – poetry and prose –
pile up and down a basement.
Crave Gregory, my dwarf, and grope
gigantesque quailing statues. I rest my
case, now rest in peace, come vices
and come virtues.
May I say that our month of May did
moan and mound your map?
The gal I had, the love I craved for,
snaking round your lap?
For black on black, a minstrel’s mime,
how did it fit your tube; your tenor,
tremors, attitude, your membership
My Gregory, consortium, my midget
met at Clinton. The President? Pen’
tentiary a classic wanton win ton…
The girl mixed up, giving this birth,
a scolder’s mothers wrap.
You give us substance, subsequent…
Became I skilled, full yours?