At places, where I’m not to be found,
cockroaches and mice will soon bloom.
And, dear God, the finest shade -
deformed - will lose mystique and glamour.
At places, where I’m not to be found
veiled slime will cover every mirror.
And notes of music, limping guys,
their swollen legs will drag at husky morning.
At places, where I’m not to be found
there will be dust and space allergic.
And even the Princess lying over a pea pearl
will dedicate herself to impossible dreaming.
Where I’m not... Oh, God of Fair Hair,
I doubt anyone would ever worry
about this verse of flair beyond description
that crawls the mud and changes all its sloughs.
Do not assume that I’ve gone mad:
I’ve simply drunk up all the glasses.
And when I look at you, God of Grey Hair,
I’m scared by your blackest ribbons.