To My Goat

I remember your innocent reply

to the butchman’s grim question,

Your Naivety, never has a hangman

granted life as a last wish!

But fear not, you’re God’s martyr.

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I’ve executed your will with utmost care:

all your love poems are now ashes,

your biography has gone to the publisher,

all the royalties will be spent on your lineage

and your skin did not fly to London.

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your friends, the sheep, fell on the last day

wish I could say they felt no pain,

they were noble in life, noble in death,

looked the slayer in the eye

but alas, could not help bleating

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I am sorry that you tainted

my memory of you with lies.

No, sir, no goats were slayed

with guillotines in the Revolution.

your descendants will be slayed

like you were, guillotine is forbidden to you

even if you were French.

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Notes on the Fridge Door

im

In my dream, the old florist’s face
in scarf was a stale wrinkly rose,
her eyes drops of dew, she spoke
with her petals and wrapped with her leaves
a bouquet of rain-scented clouds
and wished you a happy birthday

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Remember what I said to you
On your sanity’s funeral,
that only a dive in irrational
will baptize you

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Today I have made for you
a glass of sea
And a slice of moon in lunch
With a sprinkle of grilled stars
And milky sauce of a galaxy
to give you a cosmic soul

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when i knew you for the first time
you were walking the lines of my hand
with your slow tread and hunched shoulders,
when you slipped and vanished in those
valleys of our hands where we
chase away the undestined things,
I knew that the hoax was real and
that it was love at last sight
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