Saturday, November 17, 2012

i love you as certain dark things are to be loved

i cannot write poetry about you.
you, whom i’ve known for all but
thirty-five hours.
but these were hours of lust and desire and
covetousness and these feelings
are my dearest, most loyal friends.

so i said, between swoons and sighs,
my heathen, you are dark tonight;
you are black as your heart, black as your pitiless eyes
burning into mine
as you grind me - oh grind me to dust,
to small particles of nothingness
yes, nothingness,
for ever and ever,
amen. (for you love that word, do you not?)

libera me, domine, de morte aeterna,
always these words, my heretic, my darling,
my cesare.
are you that afraid of the eternal slumber?

i cannot write poetry about you,
because the thought of you renders me febrile,
and words and coherence elude me.
and only your apocalyptic latin hymns
will soothe my feverish soul.

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