 |
| Claude Monet |
Deeper and deeper into the web we come,
until we reach the
centre;
here we rest while
gnats hover
like Zeppelins over
our subterranean bodies.
My body howls for a
drink
and the steamy centre
makes us drunk
of fluid and dew juice
this is our blissful
days:
the rumble of the
eastern drum
concerns not us,
the noise does not
reach us.
Our sour beat and
sweetened Ayres,
facilitate the hand of
Oberon,
until mere utterances
are drowned
in the growl of burnt
firewood;
plain noise, simple
imitations,
wipes us out
© Anders Enochsson 2009
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