Yes, Oyster petals,

irridescent and of the sea.

my voice seems clearer
when i break out
the bottle; i seek such  flower
as you.
similar in day as in night.

what great poet shall spit at me today?
of what shall it consist?
dining with great devils
can confirm anything and all
through small talks,
in naught thoughts collected
in halls of tall proportion and
sculptures of an hour.
Eliot declares i reek of tins
evaporated of their oil.

So To the River Excrement,
my great friends,
amistad de facto,
mis compatriotas,
my fig leafed and gifted
of days never existed.

To where i give up my luck
in a trough of black cigarettes
all vertically threshed, packed
together in imitation of the
wiry heads of your children,
O River, my lecturer.
[Your children who’s shoulders touch.
who’s lips are pulled tight along
sephia teeth from the recitation of your
cuttlefish inked poems,
its squared metre snapping glossolalia
into familiar
cursed ears…y altro argonauta]

“do not fear,”
was once declared to me.
“infinity i guarantee
but a timeless eternity you may never see.”