Socrates in his pink bathrobe
In the garden of a rented country house.
He smells like a mouse,
Bringing to mind something that is not present.
As a deceiver imagining his ability to deceive,
He creates the nightshade of the in-turned individual
And tells the watering finches all about it.
“Disturb the indolence of the mind,”
The wig master exclaims, loaning him Christ’s wig,
Impeccably combed with a thistle,
Which Socrates uses to charm a doula out of her clothes.
During the act, the wig goes flying and lands on a dog
Giving birth to a pile of holy shit, the telephone
Poles like crosses that crucify squirrels.
Already condemned to death, the wise old
Socrates tending the peas and carrots,
Drawing circles around them with his stick,
A beautiful woman in a cloak looking over the fence.
Nearing nighttime with its risks and unknowns,
He stuffs his collar with dried grass and climbs the pole
To play scarecrow, a bag over his head to complete the look.
Monday, February 12, 2007
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