Palace
In deepest dream towards Rosemonde's palace
My barefoot brain inclined for the evening
Like a naked king the walls are waking
Beaten flesh and fresh-cut roses
You can see my thoughts immersed in roses
Smiling at the concert of the toads
They are in the mood for cypress bedposts
The sun is a broken mirror of the rose
What badly wounded bowman opened
Stigmata of palms on the windowpane
At the white lamb's love-feast I have tasted
Resins that bitter the Cyprian wine
On the jagged lap of the lascivious king
In the May-time of her age and finest frock
Mysterious Madame Rosemonde rolls
Her little round eyes like a Hun
Lady of my thoughts your pearly asshole
Is unrivalled by anything Oriental
For whom are you waiting
Deepest dreams en route to the Orient
Are my loveliest neighbors
Knock knock Come into the forecourt night is coming
In shadow the night-light is toasted tinsel
Hang your heads by the hair on the hat-rack
The evening sky is aglimmer with pins
We entered the dining room our noses
Caught a whiff of grease and mucus
Of twenty soup bowls three were urine
The king ate two poached eggs in bouillon
And then the scullions brought in the meat dishes
A standing roast of thoughts deceased in my brain
My lovely still-born dreams in slices still bloody
And gamy little meatballs of memory
Dead for millennia now these thoughts
Had a flavorless taste of frozen mammoth
Bones or visionaries danced out of ossuaries
The dance of death in the folds of my brain
And all those meats pronounced revelations
But Holy Christ!
A famished belly has no hearing
The guests continued their best mastications
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poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
Added by Poetry Lover
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