The Headless Horseman
The messenger was so dead they sent him
to fetch life. It was easier said than done,
but an agreeable mare was duly
provided to him.
The great desert of non-being knows no storms.
Animal magnetism destroyed the compass;
still, the binoculars caught sight of some
mysterious flashes in the distance.
Gold was lying in wait. It had no owner,
and was rather amiable, showing itself
to any passer-by. Who needs a head
when he sees a sparkling future before him?
Turn the page, amigo; let’s move on to the next
century, and don’t leave our saddle bags behind.
Our glorious past, unseeing eyes
in the slipstream of a vulture…
A Tune for Theremin Vox
Modigliani is not dead,
he is sculpting in Africa.
His fingers have shaped
numerous heads that all
talk at the same time.
God praises simplicity,
although the Universe changes shape
with every breath he takes.
His ultrasound singing disturbs
his worshippers, the linnets.
