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Fetish
The colors will not welcome me.
Again, I am detached
from the blue charms of childhood
and the yellow idols of adulthood.
Red: who loves it? too hot for the pure,
too much for the combination.
An obscenity -- the sunrise and the sunset
prefer the following hour, the distant memory.
The dead welcome me. Through cloud, through
cloud -- I can hear them. Can't you?
How did you grow up to lose your toys,
to dye your hair and shed your voice?
(If the grown can grow anymore
than fat and numb) All it should take
to reach them is a step or two, a step
or two towards you, my love, my distant memory.
The colors will not welcome me.
Again, I am detached
from the blue charms of childhood
and the yellow idols of adulthood.
Red: who loves it? too hot for the pure,
too much for the combination.
An obscenity -- the sunrise and the sunset
prefer the following hour, the distant memory.
The dead welcome me. Through cloud, through
cloud -- I can hear them. Can't you?
How did you grow up to lose your toys,
to dye your hair and shed your voice?
(If the grown can grow anymore
than fat and numb) All it should take
to reach them is a step or two, a step
or two towards you, my love, my distant memory.
Fetish
The colors will not welcome me.
Again, I am detached
from the blue light of childhood
and the yellow light of manhood.
Red: who loves it? too hot for the pure,
too much for the combination.
An obscenity -- the sunrise and the sunset
prefer the following hour, the distant memory.
The dead welcome me. Through cloud, through
cloud -- I can hear them. Can't you?
How did you grow up to lose your toys,
to dye your hair and shed your voice?
(If the grown can grow anymore
than fat and numb) All it should take
to reach them is a step or two, a step
or two towards you, my love, my distant memory.
The colors will not welcome me.
Again, I am detached
from the blue light of childhood
and the yellow light of manhood.
Red: who loves it? too hot for the pure,
too much for the combination.
An obscenity -- the sunrise and the sunset
prefer the following hour, the distant memory.
The dead welcome me. Through cloud, through
cloud -- I can hear them. Can't you?
How did you grow up to lose your toys,
to dye your hair and shed your voice?
(If the grown can grow anymore
than fat and numb) All it should take
to reach them is a step or two, a step
or two towards you, my love, my distant memory.
Bitter Parody
The child who hated love shall now live on
despised by what he'll love the most when grown!
the beast declared. What do I love the most?
the sipping of the tea? the champagne toast?
Perhaps to look upon your stone, to read
the signs I carved beside your date: my heart,
your hand, the midge upon my shoulder, and
the drop of oil that pours out from your hair
onto my sweetened lap. Sometimes, I dig
in hopes the rot of ages have not yet,
not yet! touched your pale skin --
declared you martyr praying for my sin
upon the lap of God, making him grin.
But then the caretaker of the park denies
me lover's rights -- and Gothic ties.
The Wheel
The wheel will not relent. I shout,
I am no heretic! I am no heretic!
but with their choosing ears the priests are set.
In this pagan court with a Christian tune,
is he who will not commit worth all the spite?
Why, my Lord, did you make me a slave?
As with my brothers, I should rather be
some hired hand, some still unequal soul
who found his due not in the master's whip
nor in the errant bowl of stew, but in the piece
of silver with a woman's head engraved,
with a woman's breast -- now I see.
I am no witch! I am no witch! she shouts,
but with their chisel eyes the priests are set.
Needs
That I should grow to love a singer
so distant -- hate a maid
so near. What an irony,
the unfocused eye!
What a truth --
The child who hated love shall now live on
despised by what he'll love the most when grown!
the beast declared. What do I love the most?
the sipping of the tea? the champagne toast?
Perhaps to look upon your stone, to read
the signs I carved beside your date: my heart,
your hand, the midge upon my shoulder, and
the drop of oil that pours out from your hair
onto my sweetened lap. Sometimes, I dig
in hopes the rot of ages have not yet,
not yet! touched your pale skin --
declared you martyr praying for my sin
upon the lap of God, making him grin.
But then the caretaker of the park denies
me lover's rights -- and Gothic ties.
How I love
to look upon your stone, to read the signs
I carved beside the date: that heart of mine,
that hand of yours, that delicate
midge upon my shoulder, and the oils
that poured from your perfumy hair
onto my sweetened lap. Sometimes, I dig
in hopes the rot of ages have not yet,
not yet! touched your pale skin,
declared you martyr praying for my sin
upon the lap of God -- making him grin.
But then the caretaker of the park denies
me lover's rights, and Gothic ties.
to look upon your stone, to read the signs
I carved beside the date: that heart of mine,
that hand of yours, that delicate
midge upon my shoulder, and the oils
that poured from your perfumy hair
onto my sweetened lap. Sometimes, I dig
in hopes the rot of ages have not yet,
not yet! touched your pale skin,
declared you martyr praying for my sin
upon the lap of God -- making him grin.
But then the caretaker of the park denies
me lover's rights, and Gothic ties.
The Wheel
The wheel will not relent. I shout,
I am no heretic! I am no heretic!
but with their choosing ears the priests are set.
In this pagan court with a Christian tune,
is he who will not commit worth all the spite?
Why, my Lord, did you make me a slave?
As with my brothers, I should rather be
some hired hand, some still unequal soul
who found his due not in the master's whip
nor in the errant bowl of stew, but in the piece
of silver with a woman's head engraved,
with a woman's breast -- now I see.
I am no witch! I am no witch! she shouts,
but with their chisel eyes the priests are set.
Needs
That I should grow to love a singer
so distant -- hate a maid
so near. What an irony,
the unfocused eye!
What a truth --
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