Dean Nicholson


She! She gives a kiss
to anyone’s offered hand
Her teeth are like ships are in a bliss
when at last in fog they spot the land

To her the Moon is Sun
then she repents about all she wished and might
and tears actors with claws out of fun
red as blood is her ruff white

This is cat, or lion is it not?
snow is now her howl!
her fur’s rotting as a float
inside eye of sleeping owl

No, she asks not for a wise advice
tables with her jump she pushes
with her nostrils full of rice
in alcohol just like fishes

And company of the cats is one she appreciates
or for it she’s only prone
veins to stones with fornication she recreates
to observe from her new throne

Around island of the poppy bud
trace of innocent powder chasing
there her flag gets wet of blood
– then she swallows it like icing!

Of her own place she is fearing
– for her the spot may be a well known ilk
peacock’s army she’s breast-feeding
with the eyes as soft as silk

In theatre she’s stiffening
the bleeding in nose
in hospital she’s projecting
she’s dear universally – more, or less, who knows?

Soot of walls is raving
they love her the least
to them means nothing – she is charming
nor her naked paws released

But only by dream they’re trotting
butlers, they are good dogs
piously at stars they’re looking
saying : it’s served, tea and togs

Blood-stained is already tie
– damn this bows white nonetheless
teeth – still they are dry
hoofs crushing the doors nevertheless

Blood is her new child
and true hamlet now
it is white-faced and it is mild
doesn’t saying what wishes and how

With no introduction to good manners book
makes her nature wet, this heir
by the light of lampions took
in her black and painful hair

Why everywhere is like sludge?
she did play with her a lot
but her ruby grief could judge
and dig her the grave at spot

Like wasp angry all she keeps in mind and knows
all gulps from the babyhood
in hand of hers trembles, glows
gift of her late motherhood

And although to blood her name she owes
mother is she gentle, pure
in her bosom everyone to her flows
but only to some, the stick shines for sure . . .

So large is the sea
that it even falls as well in soup
spoons astonished burning free . . .
– Applause for the stupid mob in loop

Ooze is everywhere, slippery is all shown
it seems to be so for the old cat free of glove
but the gifted one – with the youth alight
is she glad of crises of her own?
or with foot of mountain she’s in love?
. . . on gutter-pipe she stands with delight

(Weird as well as sliding
that rug is red and nice
and while to hell it’s closest
seems to all as paradise)