why do I persist with you?
my dear, sweet, beautiful endless lover?
why do i spend hours decoding your
Or try to decipher which words are what?
I spend hours, until my eyes bleed from straining...
and while i attempt to understand your grave messages,
i am alone in my head thinking,
Did she ever learn to write correctly?
Why can't I read this?
She is so brilliant and her thoughts are
obscured by her lazy hand.
Is that an 'f' or a 'g'?
I've spent hours buried in books trying
to translate your passionateprofessions
flippingthroughpagesfastandfull
Or is her Italian as bad as her French??
I wonder ambiguously.
and at the end of it i'm just as
d u m b f o u n d e d as when i began
and am only more ingtrigued by you
and more in love with my death dream.
Is that how it goes, Lady Vertex?
Grand Duchess of Pivot? Princess Pinnacle?
Matron of Metamorphoses?
When something must die,
does it have a long, detailed,
colorful, picturesque, fantasy
of being your otherworldly Isolde?
or whatever form it is of you
that they so ultimately desire
(maybe somewhat) irrationally?
maybe I ...
Or maybe you're just a mortal distance.
I, immortally speaking {endlessly},
sweet loathesome Gatekeeper of Tragedy,
laughing through tears, would sit
night after lonely night, during some grey day or other,
at the apartment most likely ---
the times i couldn't reach you i would smile
wholesomely and virginally, rag doll legs hanging over
some chasm somewhere, eyes outward, gleaming blissfully,
that you were just out attending to your ethereal business,
leading dying somebodys to wherever it was they were
supposed to go (because it was said that he
went part of the way with them)
(whereveryonemustgo)
so that i could think as little as possible on the truth,
that you were clamboring over hedges,
crawling over pavement
or stumbling through alleys
jonesing for a fix.
(childofrollsandrailroadtracks)
or perhaps, as they say,
Waltzing with Wolves ...
See? Even if i do love you the way you ...
it would mean nothing.
Because our bond,
however unimpugnable, is as transparent
as air or hallucinations
or delusions or faith.
("That's when I knew that I could never have you,
I knew that before you did.
Still, I'm the one who's stupid.")
Even when i offered my soul to you,
you graciously denied it
because, you say, "it could never be."
Well, then, Lady, FUCKING LET IT BE.
Or stop fighting this (defeatist)
losing fucking uphill battle
Because, don't you know,
Mademoiselle de Mort,
These days we weave are very short. (?)
Or we could just leave our love in some other
dimension of surreality.
Where you, Dame Death, are but a Peter Pan
fighting off Captain Hook for his Wendy.
To at least lead her away from the corruption
of an interesting sounding story,
and take her far from Neverland toward
the second star to the right
first thing in the morning.
Maybe that's how this dream must end -
in this centrifugal continuation as you
Pan[.Death]
swoon spiritually over some saddened dichotomous gatekeeper
(Lucifer's coveted concubine),
and you'll sit, smoking, on a spiral staircase
that leads nowhere but into the trunk of a dying tree.
And we'll both weep over the other's Immortal Duty.
and i'll waste away quietly in something like purgatory
with a chain on my ankle, leaning against an iron gate
in the fog of the underworld,
as beautiful and decorated as Gweneviere,
sobbing over a monstrous mutation of le main ---
and while the Suicides moan at their own mutated body parts
dangling from their branches like sick ungrateful
and strange fruit, i will,
at the dirty coarse rope protruding through my
with a rusty silver key carelessly tied to it.
(although i am quite aware
that none of this is really h e r e n o r t h e r e .)
But don't worry, Fair One.
You won't be able to hear my wailing woes
because he has already managed to take out my voicebox.
(You did see it, yes?)
(at the beginning of time he gave it so cunningly to Pandora,
so that i may never resign from my unearthly infinite vocation.)
and you will sit, helpless, smoking, watching from afar ---
and when you're not too busy fucking, fighting, or fixing,
you will clean The Dead off my battleground
and turn the world white at the end of each calendar year
because you know that Tragic Death
is so much more difficult to rectify.
and the pretty little glittery pathetic
Paramour of the Prince of Darkness
will mourn over her every release
and at your every
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