Every star has its double, different coloured
blood cometing at length. How you will defeat me,
with a scythe or a ladder, a hoked up piece of trash
untucked beneath a raging plinth. Your feelings,
juiced on perforated, in which troops of gentle
thought invest. Come, dear friend, life thinks
it’s spring. Now you have inflated and made me
dependent. Now you sleep, now sit, tender feelings
subside. The lack of printed makes us paranoid.
Winter brings summer to bed with leafy interludes,
quiet fictions tend to piety, no dehiscence of intimate
revelation, the debutante paper unfolding the debited
sweet trolls insist—siphoning joy with a foetal
intensity keeps us fresh, compounds our pains
beyond our proper share. Sounding historical,
the seasons digest, our poorly written biographies
caper sufficiently, seeds from the dandelion unhook
the tortured abundance of cliff-top harmonies.
I stand at the rim of a system of infringements, codes
and punishments to rival the ancient Greeks. Talking down
from a position of differential, the coxcomb coral of six
fingered bounties makes love to the idea of the voice
making love to itself, establishes an iconic, incurable
distance. Now I dream during the day and write all night,
sewing a template for the region of your delirious.
While you spiral freely in the conundrum of lost territories,
harbourless wanderings distill my ingrown love.
1 May 2015