JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON (Père-Lachaise)
fry the bones of an angel
rebels at war with the god-self.
What remains of the great popular clamor
women and drug offenses.
In this field perhaps a saint, even
your deeds seem to dodge the joy.
is the place that makes the death
or is the man to make a living?
Poggio back on a grave accomplice
me singing from afar.
Daisies and roses, tears, flowers.
Bedding plants to warm the flower child, from hell
that God invites me to make a noise.
A cat collar from human
above hunger that moves,
watching the man known snake.
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