assassin dreams

assassin dreams

assassin dreams
of paradise
the houri is upon him
drains him
all houris blow
and toklas stops to stir the brownie batter
he licks
the spoon
and sees the shorter, yellow, lemon duck
upon the grass
he cannot levitate
alas
his future drifts
in haze, an aitch
all aitches blow
there’s hell and hate and HMOs and…
so hemingway, the aitch, pumps the shotgun for him
he cradles it
and dreams
of paradise
and crimson curls of crispy wisp
while miller sleeps face down in gertrude’s lap
she licks
a knife
and seems
so smug
her slit tongue
drips and drips and drips and drips and drips
twelve pinguid drops
on henry’s nape
it makes him laugh
cough in dream-smog
and last

like pygmalion
assassin prays for life
though not from stone
but fog

—-Don Whittington

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