Miel is dead

Miel is dead: the radiesthésie of summer announces it on its breeze of iron, which licks the bicycles

Miel is dead: and she died yellow like a human being, surrounded by provincial thrushes, magnetized like a TDK C-90

Miel is not dead: the estival sun proclaims it, round and mechanical, operated by the saved souls of the Catholic credo.


At her funeral, Miel was dressed in Sunday crème, her head had gloriole, and her hands were belittled and shiny

in contrast, her brown, immense and Egyptian coffin was settled too high, in scalene position, over catafalque of platinum


and Miel hadn't a family in the world, the guests were received by her own humane radiation at the entrance.




Later
at the hour when the angel sings along with the rooster
and the meiga returns to her hut in the Galician jungle
Miel undead erected her humane mercy from the sarcophagus
and descended to consolate the miseries of the commune
like Gabriel tri-winged in Tel-Aviv


Her meek eyes poured liquor uncontrollably
for the penitent saints to lick

because:

Miel is dead: the zuppa inglese of August announces it, with trumpet and herald over your tubular ville

Miel is dead: and she died on your street, illuminated by this semi-urbanized sun, that smells like alcoholic drinks & Schweppes

Miel is not dead: and how to contradict Satan himself, who is promulgating it with divine permission through these deplorable lanes?