To the subject of our unified lust: Yes, darling, all men are evil.
When the duvet of night smothers
Me and the guitar, cuddling quiet
Except for pings, the shiny, curved
Body luscious with those beautiful
Strings poised, you are the dull mumbled
Thud of a foot hitting wood.
Sorrowful bar flyers vibrate
Your name in my glassy eyes,
That taste lingering around next
To the sixth gin singing cold
Flowers over our encompassed grave:
Burial of London’s prison-homes
Payne that drove her to wonder,
Lie that drove us apart, writhing
Separate fakeries self-seeking
As missiles that follow heat,
You are the acid that, innocently
Dripping, obliterated our silent failure
Now lit in notoriety.
Dripping along the sulphur fire smell,
Covering my arms, my body, from
Merciless heavens falling in
Perpetual time, dreams of the other
Having become disturbed or perhaps
God is to blame.
Even if you’re always repeating through my mind
I can’t ever see your face or a picture of your fine
Compelling eyes pinpointing the Satan of your brain,
All I have memory of is hair and a slimmish figure one
Darkest night some September or November and your
Feigning interest in my peril, really already seeing me
As the discarded rind of her orange sweet and tender.
Condemned to smoke alone in that queue I’m still
Waiting for my life to find itself inside a club that’s always
Too full of screaming strangers to ever be truly open,
So, I guess it is gutter-time for this pitiful spine of my loving
Wonder presently rotting in an open crate:
So many wasted apples. So very full of brown stinking
a protest at their evanescence in the crispy senses of fleet-footed
Fate, the messenger of the rumour of death. I did like your
Christmas present though, compass so profound:
I only had the romantic might for a notebook with the pricetag
Still left in. By accident. Such is the will of the rotting wind
Not to trouble though frequently offending, and then, Charlie,
She was crowned. Wasn’t she?
Nothing but the indiscriminate lack lustre of mine whilst thine grows to feed fatuous milks bubbling with foolish tadpoles gleaming a certain opaque delight. You, creature, I creature, fantastic and mere fucking machines made organic to feel real pains and crying torrents over blurry phones laughing: all the better to obscene.