waiting for the singer-man

he lay his ear down, on to the zagged window sill, waiting for the
singer-man, dollopped in velvet britches, finery from vienna, tossing
scented powders to cover angry daffodils and their nightly

panderings, and he blew his arias across the buttery fields, haunted
by his succubus dumbfounded, as she stumbled over grasping lilacs,
lost in her hungry dervish, and he made his kissing pout, heavy

in the glimmer dawn, tasting s.comfort dew drops, flung sweet from
ancient gabber trees, flung wasteful in their nightly raucous joy;
he lay his ear down, whistled for the catter bird, to find that singer-man,

to fill him up with whisperings and magic words and bind him with his
ribbons, his fopperies, leave him wrapped in carmen's long decline,
leave him stolen from the widow flies that eat the moon's slow

shadow, for this night would bring its gypsy clefs, and bring his tapping
sliding jittering dance, his huzzah razza-ma-tazzah show stopping and
fabulous cirque to his window's sill, with its sly and dusty thieving ways,

where he would lay his ear, caught in paisley webs spun by the dreaming
singer-man, and begin a day already long forgotten, but laughing to the
gossip of the chi-chi bugs, to belladonna's cold lament, waiting for the rave

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