Tuesday, 12 January 2010

The lively old, the newly dead

yes and love (mine)

sex and entertainment (confusing)

wine speeds the poems out of me,

worsens the eyes whose innocence
my face grew out to conquer,

a fuck is weightless and miserable
as an acid,

a woman's loveable morning breath,
rare and original as anything,

yes and love (my words)

overlooking a valley of firs and echoes
in january,

the passage of this year so heavy,
the newly dead, warm in the low fog,

argue for the soul's existence in whispering howls -

my deeply drawn, smoky breath is an unanswerable question.

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