to Alexander the Great,
whom I would nurse forever
My back hurts when I bend the sun.
Because I carry your stiff
and proper head with no pats.
Someone mentioned love, a riot
a blueness, a pig head but my song
son, it is a song with no offense.
With the events of its kind
(I believe they are all set)
I your mamma
out with cigarettes
filled with caress
Sail your head on my stoat red lap
steady please with giddiness and I
do it at last. Your head, my lap
tripping fingers on your strap and I
do it fast with cutter hands.
But then I believe no nothing serves well
no one is lipping so heavily this debt
as you swell, so I tremble and its immense.
I just want a portion of petty things
to shut me down on a bedroom hall
or a coffee. I say black and there it is
I say black and there he is clothing
the one thing that can be clad.
And I your sis’
victress on my dress
I mean if you’re aware
I have learned nothing but your head
your bare head with no spring coming in.
But then again a punnet of regret
because no nothing is tied, sir
no nothing at all, as you said.
But my hands, sir, my legs
why do they lie within a stuck foil?
(So that begins what I have said.)
The sorority of little things coming
from hand to hand crowning my heir
forever and ever again and again
for the slip of others to pour and declare
word by word mouth to mouth
love and bleach at your despair.
I just want the hole site of the hole
where it deepens as I sit and go
with everything to the very end of it all.
Let me convince you how extraordinaire
I shed, you gulp. I nick, you go.
I Just want you on my favourite bed
trite sheets with gloves as well
and the milky swannery for the rest.
Milk to the swans, do you understand?
As we loop as we pause as we look at it close.
hmm hmm hmm, hmm hmm hmm
this gothic love song
As my back hurts so and so.
As your head comes as your head goes
rolling gently through my toes
against this winter of jaded coats.