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"In the church of my heart the choir is on fire!"

-Vladimir Mayakovsky

1 avarice, the noose that lets oil, oh my dear oh "La Ronde," erase what is assured and ours, it resurrects nothing, finally, in its eagerness to sit under the widely spaced stairs, to be a fabulous toilette, doesn't imitate footsteps of disappearance

The neighbor, having teased peace to retire, soon

averages six flowering fountains, ooh! spare the men

and their nervous companions that melt and ripen

into a sordid harbor of squid-slipping tarpaulin strips,

quits the sordid arbor of community butchers' girth

The jumping error pins hate on the blossoms of baffles,

desely foraging covered hero-Nero of Maltese, of Moor,

leap, oh leap! agains the fame that's in the noose,

sister of yearning, of eclogues without overcoats deeply,

and the trumpet rages over the filigreed prisoners

Now sallies forth the joyousness of being cruel

which is singing of the world needed by the paralyzed wind,

seated and rebeginning, mounting without saying adieu,

never again delicately to entomb a tear,

that mark of suffering in the toughness of the forest

Lepers nest on the surly cats of glistening delirium,

feet of fire drowning in the attitude of relinquishing foreheads

remember always the barriers so cupiditously defended,

no spume breezy enough for the tempestous sabers

sent reeling into the charades of fears of the nubile

A crisis questions its attendant in the eyelid of Verona

so serious are the lassitudes of a heart turned into a choir

and the fire-escapes tend to ferment against the paynim cheek

of love that's advancing into a maelstrom for a true speech,

succoring the lewd paupers deliberately, spear-like,

the pearl hesitating to come near the arid well

Noose arriving tropically masterfull, estimating and caught,

let the crouching ferns release their nascent sonata

and, shaking with a remunerations of flaccid countries,

eat the rum that cruises and immortality non-sequitur finish,

quiant, and having an aspirations as of torrents and cars

Touched by the insensitivity that broods over the boats,

oh halos of startling carpets, canoes and lathes! archers!

a January of feeling seats itself before the young soldiers

and laughs and laughs at those arch-guardians' radiance,

particularly the sneer of fate, habit shaking its white fists

2 Now for some hell, you make a few fast purchases separated by first nights of yoyo-carwheel-violences, ill but yelling and running full of the younger luminosity, soulful, oh and epic and sort of rouged between the shoulder blades! which the striding has not succeeded in making a gondola yet and this has so devastated the murmuring contributions of strangers in suits under the brilliant heather, although, my soul! it's white it's painted white as the rain! and have you not taught for clarity, for that sweet sake, the wordly dream of the son marching outward always? and whispering of sins in the green clouds

An eagerness for the historical look of the mirror,

the dry smile of knowledge which if faithlessness apologizing

to the Sphinx, and is it not a great fury of horsemen

who make a guided tour of the future and its glass-like tortures?

the odor of evening vibrating across that linear nostalgia

and vouchsafing a plume and volume of Plato,

purblind water, the earth pitting its stench against the moon's

and accomplishing a serenade, a terrestrial touchdown sigh

in the silence which is not yet formidable or ominous,

resenting the leaves and not yet gearde to the undercutting foam