I was waiting for the Damien Hirst question.
The pauper's skull covered with diamonds
and all that shit.
I love you. Goodbye.
Do the words turn, truly,
the way the worlds turn?
No hateration in my dreams.
Sometimes you swim in them
and possibly I hunt you
the way Inuit hunt the seal.
There is a sexual reverence
even in the kill.
Kill is metaphorical.
Hot buttered frippery
of the face in the dream.
You're distractive as a glacier
with a haunted gay casino on top.
Silly wabbit Jedi mind tricks
are all my love. Wipe your hand
across your mouth and cough,
using emoticons of the highest order.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment