martin cruz smith rose chi

Somali women wrapped in robes
veils of gold, strands in the shape
their longing compressed
darkest smoothest wood,
cinnamon, cardamom, musk.
tangled in damp
Which last night had demanded quinine and gin --
resounding like blood vessels
mouthful of coals
carpet of tea stains,
window of weepy
unconscious as conscious;
He rolled on his side to the scuttle.
sweet Moroccan minted tea
-- he certainly didn't have money to ride --
swayed like a sailor.
The boulevards of Paris were washed once a day.
pawnshop, mission hall, tripe house, oyster stall,
sodden boas
rouge and venereal disease.
HEARTSICK STRANGLER KILLS BABE, MUM!
ribboned boxes,
in vests festooned
He laid his last coin
A boy with brighter eyes
crenellation that expressed confidence,
A brass plaque on a column read
Gunpowder tea will set you straight, sir.
imperial pink
inappropriate vigor
wild at the temples
"You stink of gin. Have some port."
medicine, food, gifts for the chiefs.
first the flies, then the cattle,
ash and armbands of ivory.
Specimens with holes.
put the king in irons.
into battle with a musket and boxes of verse
It will be a glorious slaughter.
your coffee-colored women.
You are transparent.
maudlin myths
Peoples of the Horn.
And like the white rabbit, you'll pop down a hole
dining on the citizens of London.
on anyone else would have looked like prayer;
mustering in Zanzibar and attempting to cross
keep the decanter steady.
Lantern slides of Africa?
A zealot for preaching to fallen women
Like the white rabbit,
a wayward curate.
seduced in turn,
dipped into his Bible Fund
From under his chair the Bishop drew
honey for a spoon of bile.
minor redemption.
tap on the window,
collect in beads,
coalesce and then
"You overwhelm me,"
Discourage that.