By Boris Poplavsky
Jouissance of violets in the basement
Where long dead stars sighed of sepulchral murk
Still, phantoms would then open windows
Where morning rose
They hurt so bad, their faces hid away
Until the dusk
When, in its dimming, every ray
Forever passed
And in the night, flames sprouted from the walls of houses
Above a void leaned flowers - tempted by the chasm
Beneath, the Demiurge paced over asphalt, thinking
How she could ever enter in that wondrous building
Paced so damn long, she'd rest her face on stone
And softly whispered with her father, cold and gone
Then fall asleep
And one returning from the ball
Would push her with his drunken feet