This body of mine. Wretched; leaking stink from every pore, spreading decay to everything touched: metal, food, flower, paper; shedding dead skin every moment; creating odour odour odour… But in your arms transformed: into a messy tangle of limbs, hair, sighs. No longer decaying. No longer dying. Suddenly desirable. This body of mine.
Lost delights of mine, leave me not in unknown ways And all of our dandled days in my fortune’s hand Winder cold wails the wrong of death delays When cold wind blows into my desert sands She has turned within
Absent deliberate intervention vis a vis suicide, supposed “natural” longevity of generic human primate ride ding bareback across avast broke back mountain minus pride defies accurate prediction, though hypothetical projections can override unknown factors, whereby excluding misfortune nationwide (and/or globally
Blood was in season, on your hands. A staged encounter mauling the clouds. Into a hare, you put the lead with a roar of gun and sun wants his share. Beneath the honours lies the guilt of a ravaged moon.