there's a flood that can't be tamed when
scarlet velvet gushes from your core
like a liquid bouquet of despair.
the day is different,but the feeling remains the same:
rust and crimson,crimson and rust,
dripping and pushing and staining
every last inch of your soul.
if anything,one could contemplate the irony
of so many revived white sheets-
but it's rather improbable to seek philosophy
where something more flesh-bound
is damaging and real...
my fingers never looked so honest!
my lips-never so pure!
underneath this burning canvas,I am cleansed
and serene and ready to fall wherever
the road shall pin me!
at the back of my throat,there lies a memory
of damp handkerchiefs,familiar beds
and the image of a carnal dam being released:
if only I could trade my
celluloid Hell and verging disbelief
who knew I could cause so much damage to
my own forgotten mechanism?
to love,to laugh,to not care-
that's the crib of
my palms are red,
my arch is an enemy,
my everything is weakened...