In The Shade Of Another Sabbath

I will write about jingoistic nunneries
Riding white army ants all across barbaric planets
Where you can’t breathe from the sight of your
Love;
And that is all I will have to do, embittered in the novel
Tombs of my new tiny home:
But I can curl up anywhere; I can draw on any where I
Want:
And I will definitely make love to so many women:
All the time these housewives or Chinese waitress will come
In as subtle to bow as willow sprigs:
The witchcraft of their twats curling up at the end like
A fat lima bean at the end of its green candle:
Like I made love to that sweet black woman just last night
With the red and black star southward of her navel;
And after I came in her, she straddled me and jerked me off
Until all of the sounds were drowned out by the airplanes
Taking off;
And all the students were parked far back into the darkness of
So many games, their eyes just as far away as the nearest
Conveniences:
How I floated over them using the old rope tricks of really hot
Swamis: how I am floating over them still,
Petting the flat nosed cobra, and playing my ukulele
On April Fools day in the shade of another Sabbath.