Pinata

There is a grave in my basement.
I don’t know how it got there
I creeped down the steps (I crept)
And smelled jelly beans, lemon-sugar powder
Purple flowers (what are they called?) Surely
There is a skeleton in those shadows?
He will come a’rattling and ask me to dance?

Delirious! Lepor! You are smiling all over yourself.
Your pink emotion has rather ejaculated. There must have been
A death acceptance somewhere in my past. There is a grave!
There is a grave in my basement! No, I am not comfortable with this.

Here is something that cheers me up: The great fog of our lives.
We walk to work with our trenches up over our mouths.
Do you smell sugar-powder shit? No. Do you? No.
The fog of our lives! My friend, Le Jennifer, asked me: Is there
A grave in your basement? Why of course! I felt one of her breasts!

The plague is here (but don’t tell anyone). Because when
It is clear, when it is clear that the plague is here (the fog
Will have lifted) then we will see the thousand corpses, their sores!
Their sores! Whoo-Haa! And we will feel one another’s breasts. Our
Genitalia will come to life as on the third day of spring! The plague
Will force us into goat-footed position. The balloons will rise from our arses!

Stop. Now stop. Open the basement door. And quietly, now, quietly, you creep.
You’re creeping. Is that a treasure for you and me? The gift of our futures.
No Lepor; No Le Jennifer; No, even Elliot Le Ginn. These are graves.