for lucy
we all crawl underneath
our beds
to die alone.
- sometimes
when we’re
young
we burn everything
in our paths
to find flowers like you.
or look into
cave paintings
for the spark of life
in the cinders
of time.
the scarlet lips
burn
asking me
to grant her
poetry
or sex: what difference does it make
- she’s beautiful. i
can love her
if only she lets me.
no flowery language, no cynicism
- lets fuck
and dine with the
gargoyles of the pits
reading this,
- people
shrug off
the nonchalance
and comfort
themselves
with watered down wine
& love.
i look for it in
child’s play
- books
about
you me or some other phantom
the way a cat stalks its own shadow
- in death’s laughter or alchemical riddles
love is pretty
secretly
eying us from
dark
taverns
swearing
and farting in tune
with its no.7
in a pitcher
- where’s the whore
it says
- where’s my meal
it says
western civilisation
has burnt love to the
ground with a cross
- out onto the bum
streets
fishing for fag butts
whilst art gives its
daily blowjob
to the press,
romance is dead.
- i agree
but you and i are not.
let’s share our lives
like the
oxygen
from aching veins.
lets make love
and pant like
chaotic tigers.
lets loathe
and curse
and spit
and rage
and never be
whole again.
because perfection is death
and i don’t want to die just yet,
