I saw you in the courtyard with
A half-a-dozen graceful doves,
All gaily dressed and hanging on
Your every word, the fools!

And me, a ragged gypsy whore!
I would not comb my hair for you.
Perhaps that is the fascination.
Here you are again...

I stand with hand upon my hip
And wait for you to enter, crush
The cigarette between my heel
And fall upon my knees, my lord,
For yet another vice.

(Father, see the tricks that I
Have learned so well at your disclosure,
And see his wallet dangling from
His trousers on the floor.)

You twist your fingers in my uncombed
Hair and sing of your desire.
Well, thank you for the kind words -- there
Will be no charge tonight.

And now you hide your face for shame
Between my legs. You're nothing now,
No crystal bard nor shadow prince,
But still I move for you -- how odd!

Restore yourself to dignity
And leave me naked on the floor.
Don't let my beaded curtain slap
Your face on your way out.

Feeling so
hung,
to find my soul
Stretched out to sunbake, brittle, cracked
And sore. So one would come across
Me in a meadow --
Unforgiving afternoon! --
And there annoint my head with oil,
Too parched to cry aloud for rain,
And leave me there alone to perish,
Slow and languishing in pain.

Shall I await the moment when
The shadows stretch from tree to tree
Across the meadow? Will they come
And bring relief to one so hung?

So real it was -- that moment that
Was stolen from a dream! I could
Have tasted it forever, moist
And brazen like a lover.
The dream calls out, "Unhand my child!"
I must return that moment to
The other sphere. I cannot keep
It with me here.

So
hung
am
I
To steal another moment in
The shadows as they stretch across
The meadow, reaching out to shield
My dying and deserving soul.