Replay

We are replaying the same scenarios

Bludgeoned daily by the wooden

Limbs of a hollow security. I have

Your blood on my hands beneath

My indignant nails, on the soles of

My earthbound boots as they stumble

Drunken out of a stagnate room

=

I only wanted to be beautiful whatever

That means. I hope my unwashed face

Haunts you, I hope you regret painting

Portraits over a Venus De’Milo, I hope

You regret opening your hands in an act

Of mercy that I did not beseech

=

I just want to die on my own terms,

Together with you in a straw bed as

Yellow as a solarwind and I just want

To live every moment while we still can.

My love is Hawthorne’s beloved aperture

A passage that suffers no amputations, a

Sinuous tunnel that runs naked without end

=

(I seem to remember Hawthorne was fond of run-on sentences and that he had some really long drawn out descriptions of doors am I mistaken?)

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