In love with me, she’s hateful, sees a castrated overture but I sing in red and pink and white and gray and in middle day fat purple stars spit violet shards until the sunlight frays like moaning tatters of ravaged celluloid; a daytime photographed in tinny, gray yesterdays, waving rent and gasping, spots are boiling and those blisters raise up white and squirming, quiver quaver hail stone welts.
In love with me, who can she be but a storm crow flown in from angry seas?
In love with me, who can she be but a camera with crooked teeth, clicking tongue and lustful, clyclopean cataracts?
In love with me, she’s angry, squeezes rain from the buttercups and drinks it drunkenly while a ways away I’m waltzing, waning dumbly at the drooling drops upon, about me… she looks up greedily; dampened mouths are staring; gaping maws blink repeatedly for eating me is all they see. I entrap her shoulders. We are stinging and her steely nails will fail and flounder, weakening and so, so thirsty.
In love with me, who can she be but a bruised pool of spilled and spoiling inner fire?
In love with me, who can she be but a knuckle scraping, rapping on a door to a bursting room, and I’ve nothing on?