Kelp fragrance and darkness,
we have taken to the sand
between wharf, amusement palace, and southern cliff
in this weary drunken night of human silences.
So I rave outside the populated chambers of your woman’s organs
and later you lie down patiently
beside rape’s blades sparkling in sunlight
a thousand years old,
though I speak into the walls
and have gently made mountains of your breasts.

I’d thought to bring you the good gift of my friends,
weed and flower of human confusion,
nourishing wish and fine words,
and in my pocket the silver clown, opal-hearted,
Colombian deity or grass for your mind,
but you battered the child’s destiny in your white rage
and none but my violent angel understood.