(no subject)

Jun 13, 2005 01:10

I'm not quite sure why/ Every hour that passes by/ As I lie next to him/ Seems so very, hopelessly/ Tragic.
Is it the empty, globular eyes/ Which glaze over/ Mid-sentence/ Infuriatingly glassy? (I can see my reflection in his irises)/ Is it his striking resemblance to the love of/Last year who proved himself/ As revolutionary/ As he was vile? (All of my imperfections come streaming, quite unseemly/Shattering my pupils/Coursing through my optic nerve)/ A walking revelation/ In a straw hat/ And an ascot.
Where he beamed in the ‘Green’/ You lay silent/ Beneath the pines/ Next to the ravine/ Falling face down/ Into/ A shallow stream/ A smooth rock to the centre of your skull/ And crabs gnawing off your jaw/ Cries to fall on empty (slighted) ears/ And a flamingo pitched/ Firmly beneath white cotton fabric/ In the middle of your front lawn.
Previous post Next post
Up