on my spine
on my tights
in the entrance where the kids
draw a rhomboid vulva
like a chinese dragon in the center of the universe
where valerian soars
on my belly
all over my eyes
on the maps of the mechanics
traveling the earth
purchasing ropes
made from your sexless vocal cords
on the back of my head
all over lovers’ aortas
where taximeters of noble prostitution
boil  
when manic autumnal excretions
weep in the eyes of ticket sellers
for the bronze dust of the divine greta
walking around an empty theatre all-night-long
wiping off traces of her lips
from the crummy chairs
doomed to immortality
on the forms in whose pagodas
IQ and spinal cord
are specially tested,
on garlands and gondolas,
quiet picture-books of suburbia
in your close proximity
so I could observe
how in excruciating pain  
under the glassy surface of water
corals and genocides are being born

so write me, write me
by all means, oh street

writing means depilating  
your willing tongues