the white of our bones. 

our heads out the car window 
comets breaching  

our teeth bent with the bite
of hexagons, tetrahedrons 

		cacography of smoke

whistling through our eyes

tea leaves, bones, the skeleton of centuries laid bare
ochre and yellow

a fox's bones
toxic plasma singing hymns in ancient texts

you say, my god does not allow it.
what about you?
why isn't you enough?

the face you are reaching for laughs
at your prehistoric ideas

they smell of latrines

the weak excrement of  man inventing
little jails

for us
the marketable masses 

lovely bipods

intoxicated by false

so his ass can sit softer . . .

Don't preach, you say, and take a plum from the bowl.

And for what?

the froth continues
the man in the tweed coat feeds pigeons
she collects rain in oak barrels

the earth bends on its spindle
and you drive on the beach

the sun blinding you
as the old ladies jog by

with no lipstick