On Kafka and Marx
March 8, 2012
Rutilant. That is what they were.
Until the passion was lost into the empty space of meaning.
She took off her undies and delighted in the meaning
He gave with the look of a hungry child;
His innocent hands were like those
That once made her lips lisped the juju cry
Defying her tightness,
Her lifeless autonomy in the shape of things.
But never her true words, the roundness of her mental acoustics.
Still, those hands never accomplished more than
Taking her by surprise…