Murderers in the tropics. They are hardly an abnormality these days. Here are the walls, painted blue until they bleed, And everybody dances until they sweat Down the middle of their chests and legs. Put a hand on my neck, arm, face. Make me feel that I am sleepy, safe and warm. The streets are covered with wine and rats, Packed, boxed, crated, precious. The heavy sky comes down and puts our noses To the floor, We wriggle and writhe With wild heartache, Painted as we are, All that make us mute when men take their hand, And put it round a hilt. Blue as murder, I am dropped from the building window. His love's pressed up on the brick. Blue cord, blue mouth Chair in hand, a finger up my back. It is not safe to linger here, For sex, for love, For a hot bright drink spilled on my legs. I am swallowing salt. I am swallowing sand. There, look, there. There is hair on the floor, Dark and attached to a body. She is alive and she is sitting around the moon, Hot and sweaty and lidless. I hold that soft waiste in my hand. Comforting. Everywhere around us soft shadows press the sky, Eat the moon, pass the corners of the alleys. Laugh, fall from buildings, Live for blood and life. I sweat and dance. I hold the knife.