Dorothea Lasky
Go On There, Boy
The boy there, he is the sun’s son
Oh you might name him something
That name is nothing
His name is painting
The son of the sun is painting
The sun he is not the painting
We do not paint the sun
It lights the canvas that is the son
The light of the sun it is grave
O grave son, you write of many things
But before you write you bring me a cape
It is blue and it has rotted
Along with the rotted woman
Her name was Lori and her husband, Mark
He killed her to lie. O that the lie!
He loved the lie that lay there in his mind
The lie was something that lit the way
Little son, you go there on your way
I have taught you many things, so that you may
be the painting
So be the painting, feel the love of it that is wet
The wet that rots like a fish who has been
killed and we who killed it.
And we have killed it so now we eat
Let us eat! There is not much else
Worth opening the mouth for.
Not sex, not speaking, only food
That we put in it and then we talk.
But when we talk we talk of words that hold the painting
O let us hold the painting in our mouths
And chew it gently
Chew the killed woman gently
She has been lied to and then killed. Let us kill her again, but in a different way. |
