when truth becomes a lie
now as we, each wired to the moon.
black lungs have we as soldiers to the spoon
that pokes and prods anthology,
where morning shines placebo curls
and spits one red carnation looking comfortable and brash.
and you my love, that shapes my heart
to a world where horses run as shapes each soul
each dressed in black in a distant mind.
no salt we left behind for heavens sake;
and together we behold this life of ease
with our gathered frost in a shade of May
no water-sign have we to guide or way;
your thighs are mine to worship
with the candles of your eyes.
too old the ears that tremble to the touch;
my crotch is yellow, brighter than a fig!
but no colours in a shape
no odours from a world\'s unsteady staid,
I will make a world of you already made.
how natural the circles melt our horse-shoes into dust.
O me of ghost, the slender one.
tender are the fingers of testosterone and rust.
how I long to move away
but too afraid;