A Drunkard Picks A Grape In The Vineyard

Crystalline. Decant the divine joy.
Pour the fruit and fermentation
Down one’s throat;
Regurgitate and project
Long strings of effervescing speech.

Clinks and clanks resound and ring in
A pitch that floats just above
The million voices that rumble together;
Walls of an abstract box, ever in motion, swimming
Within themselves.

Marchez près des corps,
Des mains tombants, relaxés,
Des voix si forts!
Dansez, dansez
Entre des voix, des mains, des corps.

Kaleidoscopic laughter ripples; a river of
Loose joviality washes over. Convection mingles
With the glitter of the soft lights to stick our skin
With the stars that fall from our glassy eyes,
Such blurry eyes.

The flutes brought to our mouths will
Play no notes lachrymose, only those to decompose our posture.
The smoke of cigarettes swirls amok.
It frames our faces, warm and bursting,
(With the change⎯lively and constant⎯of which everything is borne.)

Oh, how a soft glow treats my face like a delicate sculpture.
Like the gentlest hand it runs across
My flush visage. (It feels my skin and how)
It incandesces.
The light reveals steam escaping a window of propinquity.