Thirteen Little Lines
Do you feel...my boyish daydreams?
The cries of a collapsing brain;
the melting, smoking images that linger as they cinder, flare and sing
back to the night.
All those noisy things, as they stand,
quiet themselves in a moment..and the red curtain parts...
I say, take that brush and paint me in all that is you;
bathe and yoke me in all that you are.
Because love is a blanket mess, sticky and sapped in uproar and whispers;
because lovers inherit each other’s hell, I’ll flounder in yours;
I writhe for you, and that ardent core inside,
but you know this, as a reflection knows itself.
When all that is celestial feels its decline, and the spheres cry into that cold space,
we can stand, laughing hand in hand, at the precipice of all things,
throwing peddles and blowing kisses.
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