avant-garde hangover

You run, nude, studded with splinters

Hair that is finespun and sunkissed 

Cascading down the gentle slopes of your shoulders

Secret, cold, and available

A man loves a woman he never touches.

A beauty that has been complicated

And deferred.

Poetic insult in the 

Small hours of the morning. 

attempts at


performative prostration.

Idolatry of the body (celibate soul), of sex, no real love!

For my part, i prefer my heart to be broken 

Its cracks shine in the dawn.

I fill them with gold and carry on.

I would love you more if i sat in a motel room rolling a cigarette 

listening to you piss in the bathroom

No, there is nothing in the whole world that is quite your own

You didn’t do anything unusual (i only wanted you to)

And yet this is you. 

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