i only see you again.
and when i cannot speak to you,
it is as if my own ear were torn off.
the taste of your voice before sleep, precious metal, liquid,
fantastic resource. red streaks on the inner thigh of memory.
these are the hormonal enchantments of life.
the child, the key to inner reality, it all comes forth,
through you, for me. and when not...nervous nightmare,
i am hooves faltered in mud.
my flower of mind throws you desperate spore.
drawing myself in again, the pale
doctrine of my own perplexed necessity,
fair, like your flesh, grows flush, brightens, glows,
subtly beating wings of a moon,
frothing the oceans of sleep, silently.
6 lutego 2009