Salim Gold

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L’Extérieur du musée Chagall

Here gulls squawk like lovers in extremis.

Arab aestheticism lauds that screech,

As when mullahs cry souls to prayer, or clerks

Caterwaul at Satan’s crafty scholars.

Just read Gibran or Khayyam, as I do,

And know that lovers are supreme animals,

Given to each other and given to drink,

And driven to that gorgeous paralysis.

You’re no pale, puritanical virgin,

And I’m no black-hearted philanderer,

Iffy in words and deed, whose love is looks.

Now, let’s fondle each other and strip off

Hair-shirt morals.  I like my lovin’ hot—

And my woman, hotter:  To squawk like gulls!

 

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