In San Francisco death or shadows of death,
white letters pressed in paint and thrown to the waves
In San Francisco death and death's melody
In San Francisco I will hold two matchsticks, one blue, one red
In San Francisco I will pour glass nails into the snow that drips from the
piste of your melting face
In San Francisco I will imbibe an unhealthy lullaby wearing a mask of
gasoline. I will lie to you, sweetly, splendidly: o the emerald cities, o
the vaults of elves, o the viridian springs, o the golden years
In San Francisco I will blow a bubble into your bubble bath, aquamarine and
silk, the verve of Venetian velvet, the softness and cruelty of your aspic
skin stroking my aspic skin.
In San Francisco I will hold my eyes in your eyes, the butterflies striped
black in lightning flutter past the neon flicker of ghosts filming movies in
the night. Good ones.
When I am in San Francisco I will multiply golden bridges by falling from
golden bridges as the golden bridges multiply, casting charms.
In San Francisco I will wait for you. I will wait as you stand beside me.
In the most profound silence I know.
In San Francisco the bluebells will bloom through the lavender green, blue,
green, sweet empty parks surrounded by sweet empty restaurants. Blood flowing
over the newly sprayed grass, wedding white.
In San Francisco the bells will chime:
I do not ask for your presence -
your presence I do not ask for
In San Francisco nothing comes for free, there is a heavy price for air, for
peonies, for cracked black pepper, crime novels and Tabitha
In San Francisco richer than a river we will roll orange and amber in million
dollar sunsets, dripping with light and American scum, as young as the moons
that made us, petrol eyed and dust loved, dirty, the sun will shiver our
hearts to mercury. Infinite reflexes, divine pears, infidels, in San
Francisco when the ocean sleeps we will be making love.
In San Francisco I will smoke two cigarettes.
In San Francisco Phoenician girls will play in the sand as I read Son de
Negroes en Cuba,
FGL, the poets name the masculine form of your own.
In San Francisco we will laugh when the saints arrive in the square to dance
in circles: o santé fe, o san josé, sway, sway, sway
O sweet western
In San Francisco stay.
In San Francisco I will cry peas and pyjamas in little tabby cat feet.
In San Francisco I will give birth to opal doves and shelter buttercup babies
from a snowstorm of lemon clouds, octopi and virgin ice. Hurricanes of spoons
jangling like Irish ships on the ally-ally-o, bronzed and jaded saxophonists
blowing out the salt windows.
In San Francisco do not fear, I am joy. I am joy boy, with wild flowers and
urchins in my hat.
In San Francisco, at Christmas, there will be pastors pouring chips on the
Eucharist. Our love will suck the silver of Madonna in cherry white and
cherry red. In the rigging we will paint our bodies nude on the rocks and in
the theatres we will drink moonlight from the Lord's bath.
In San Francisco there will be a chapel made of apple. Federica, am I inside
I do not ask for forgiveness -
your forgiveness I do not ask for
In San Francisco my smile will stretch from Vaduz to Timbuktu, with every
trophy I've won since 1987. V's lining the gold chinks of my crooked teeth.
Elephants that turn to milk in oxygen.
I do not need to hold you - I have always held you
You do not need to hold me- you have always held me
In San Francisco, under a rainbow, where we will stand in echoes
In San Francisco there is a girl trembling with God. It is you, Federica, and
why won't you stop?
In San Francisco I am not a boy. I am an empire. And my sex is a line in the
sand. I die every time I tie my strawberry laces. St. Lolita, St Cuthbert, St
Catherine, St Susanne.
In San Francisco I want the universe of me to marry the universe of you;
Herbert summers, amore bathing psyche. More life, more lust, more death.
In San Francisco after the wind storm, the sand storm, the sun storm, the
In San Francisco the waterfall of your O's will wash ceremonies from the
arc's shoulder, honey fondling the folds of my hair, husbands holding
marigolds, wives holding watermelons.
In San Francisco the water will always be purple.
In San Francisco the rain will put a face on easy and every last one of us us
will weep nettles from the balustrades, in the discos, waving our bronze
medals, waiting for the confetti to fall.
In San Francisco verve your ears, flower your eyes. Winter has run her
fingers over me, spring must follow.
In San Francisco I will arrive only to claim my victory. My pleasure domes,
my gilded beams.
In San Francisco I will call for Love - love - I will ring out the glory of
the belle epoch.
In San Francisco we will live as long as our memories, as gentle as a snowflake
landing on snowflake, rare white powder washed away with rare white powder
In San Francisco the last world is gold.