A train leaves the station at one sharp

the other, half-an-hour later, heading north

and, darlings, as both go 55 an hour, when

will they meet, and where

without my childhood nightmares?

At one sharp the train will leave the nuthouse

to carry the crazies to work

for St Benedict, the Curator;

at one-thirty the other will leave behind the factory

to depose the workers in the lap of the booze house.

They’ll never meet, said Anamaria,

and, so, they’ll meet forever, I retorted

head-on colliding with her fresh idea

which Goya had an inkling to toy with

yet never did, like Goliath and I, as reported

by Valer’s camera obscura.


the crazies land at the camp, work, seem happy

no longer beaten into cognitive submission;

while the workers fill the pubs with sweat and swear

the more they drink, the lucider

their class consciousness cultivating something,

harvesting nothing

else than

the pain between the canvass and the paint