Violins
In my own private theater of emotion,
Made all the more sinister by their numbers,
Oppressive
I could not listen to the orchestra
Without thinking of the violins as red organs
And the bows as saws
Pushing deeper and deeper into the sexual,
With malice.
The red curtains parted.
In all my brutal memory,
There exists no meaner image.
Love is a sore reflex.
It lies down, suffers sharp words,
Dismissals,
Cruel admonishments,
Slides closer to the elements,
Burnt, soft, full of dark marks.
It never forgets the original moment of its creation.
It accepts nothing else, like a stubborn child.
It knows and seeks its home in you,
No matter how faint the stars appear.
Made all the more sinister by their numbers,
Oppressive
I could not listen to the orchestra
Without thinking of the violins as red organs
And the bows as saws
Pushing deeper and deeper into the sexual,
With malice.
The red curtains parted.
In all my brutal memory,
There exists no meaner image.
Love is a sore reflex.
It lies down, suffers sharp words,
Dismissals,
Cruel admonishments,
Slides closer to the elements,
Burnt, soft, full of dark marks.
It never forgets the original moment of its creation.
It accepts nothing else, like a stubborn child.
It knows and seeks its home in you,
No matter how faint the stars appear.