Albert Ayler

Can't slow down,
I saddled infinity,
I'm riding it like a bronco
with a hard-on
caught in a bear-trap.
The nobility
of my ice-cream suit
cum-saturated
sustains its innocence
in the sweat of ages:
truth is marching in,
the brass band's eyes
roll up, overblown,
as the testicles contract
before giving it up
to the cunt-heat of the atmosphere
in which I breathe
the promise of the sixties.
If I squeal too much,
don't be ashamed,
I'll be more composed tomorrow,
but now I'm moving too fast,
there's too much lost
freedom to catch up with.

11-12 February 1995

©1995, 2000 Ralph Dumain