The opposite of wine is vintage telephone steam
Where a chain-smoking catfish conceals burning scales and rose petals.
Where desultory souls of heavenly rust invade crepuscular animals
In the moments of utmost joy.


too short

Philistines dream of being charlatans with the feet cut by crushed flowers,
Walking around the holes in gloomy skies, selling the sweet slavery of the omphaloi
To addicted children. Centaurs would have trampled them and then washed their hooves
In the appalled waters of hoary rivers, but we, being two-legged and hoofless,
Have memories too short to remember the exquisite executions of the ancestors.
Only some old shit like Mozart or Magnasco could revive those unholy scenes
On the cellular level. Happiness is a dangerous obsession indeed.