Composed near Varna, July 2009
The sun has been set free of its bonds, dislodged from our system,
Like a unicorn,
Shorn of its horn, its body a weathered mule body,
Its sunny soul quick & mortal as the rest of them,
As worn out as the morn,
As worn out as the river is naughty,
Put bitumen on your bugbites & you'll never win the lottery.
The sun has been set free, chortle, old men you've been right since the beginning.
There'd be an end to this spinning,
Shorn of its gramma-knit sweater, without agony or pity,
The Secretary of Energy's combover is seen graying & thinning,
The city's belly is aching,
The meaty center of this meaty city,
Left behind & all the better for it, weaned from the moon's dried-up mammary.
The sun has been set free of its servitude, with newfound valiance,
There'll be a man in a Hawai'ian shirt,
His plastic ukulele as his weapon, his violin violence & his other talents
Deployed against the Four Horsemen of the Green Party.
The city is a terrific flirt,
The city is a worn-out sortie,
So I'll tattoo your secret borscht recipe onto my buttocks, to be read only glow-in-the-dark by the drunk sorority.
The sun has been set free from sin, set to skip town by local bus,
Like a mastodon,
The earliest Vaalbaran genocide, slippery steppes slimed with blood & pus,
The mess beneath the Poet Laureate's refrigerator,
The broke-down Matterhorn,
Or our slothful-ass Sicilian waiter
Will also be set free from sin sooner or later.
The sun has been free - rejoice, children, & go to bed--
Rest your weary noggins--
Bound to no man, no slave of minimum wage, free to set its own systems & cycles instead,
Free to gyrate, to vibrate, resist the urge to beat the dog when it's misbehaving.
Rest your goosebumps, pumpkins--
Get down your night chords & sing--
It left no note, it's gone with no farewell, no vodka shot & no flag-waving.
Like a unicorn,
Shorn of its horn, its body a weathered mule body,
Its sunny soul quick & mortal as the rest of them,
As worn out as the morn,
As worn out as the river is naughty,
Put bitumen on your bugbites & you'll never win the lottery.
The sun has been set free, chortle, old men you've been right since the beginning.
There'd be an end to this spinning,
Shorn of its gramma-knit sweater, without agony or pity,
The Secretary of Energy's combover is seen graying & thinning,
The city's belly is aching,
The meaty center of this meaty city,
Left behind & all the better for it, weaned from the moon's dried-up mammary.
The sun has been set free of its servitude, with newfound valiance,
There'll be a man in a Hawai'ian shirt,
His plastic ukulele as his weapon, his violin violence & his other talents
Deployed against the Four Horsemen of the Green Party.
The city is a terrific flirt,
The city is a worn-out sortie,
So I'll tattoo your secret borscht recipe onto my buttocks, to be read only glow-in-the-dark by the drunk sorority.
The sun has been set free from sin, set to skip town by local bus,
Like a mastodon,
The earliest Vaalbaran genocide, slippery steppes slimed with blood & pus,
The mess beneath the Poet Laureate's refrigerator,
The broke-down Matterhorn,
Or our slothful-ass Sicilian waiter
Will also be set free from sin sooner or later.
The sun has been free - rejoice, children, & go to bed--
Rest your weary noggins--
Bound to no man, no slave of minimum wage, free to set its own systems & cycles instead,
Free to gyrate, to vibrate, resist the urge to beat the dog when it's misbehaving.
Rest your goosebumps, pumpkins--
Get down your night chords & sing--
It left no note, it's gone with no farewell, no vodka shot & no flag-waving.
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