Raspberry Conversations
Here biscuits mean something else.
Brexit means something else.
Your white, the darkness I confessed
over a cup of Earl Grey, all porcelain,
prim and unused by the generation next,
mean time is different, and we'll dine
on raspberry gateaux shaped out of shape,
"Dear landlady, mmm, this! "
the eyes of berries popped out
from the bruised flesh where my fork-marks
remain stilled, yellow-taped.
Her skin is marbled with the blue of age.
"Dear landlady, all this, hmm, means
something else."
The streets tongue the groin of horizon outside.
Spring kills the buds and revives them to kill again.
The berry eyes stare the very heart of the matter
of two medium eggs, sugar and buttermilk, all red
as if bleeding precedes the wound, and lesions
proceed to pave a good conversation where
we say something and mean something else.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem