dearest Venus,
tell me if you’ve read these
silent nothings of empty orgies consisting
of only you and I, Please? Would you tell
me if the soft spot between your breasts was really
meant for someone else? Is there an efficiency equation
I could apply for the joy you provide to my over-lonely
heart? I wonder these things when life demands my attention
and I slam doors on it. Loud, booming gun shots in
my bedroom meant more for dramatic effect than
Real anger. It doesn’t hurt less, even with the
acrid smell of burnt powder singeing my ol’
factory where dreams are made from
the spice your hair delivers;
supple designs against the
New Buildings – only it’s
German and I don’t
know how to
pronounce
it.
screaming at low volumes
