must i long for
the scarlet rain
that
did not phlebotomise,

did not secrete
from  
codeine clouds,
    
                                                                        if  the milk would be spilt.


must i conceive ignus fatuus
colourcasts from the television
inside a mouth
that caterwauls
faces of static and pollen
and Klaus Nomi masks  

as if i were lobotomised
eating flowers fingered out of
the flesh of the brain

                                                                         carnations would not exist.


i do not want to believe
the promise
of  lovers were
merely  yous' and



eyes'.
no such world is eyeless.
or any less without eyes.

                                                                            become my chalk and bones.

i want to believe
humanity
is a defined mass
of bathypelagic insects

sleeping in chrysalids
longing to be
broken.

                                                                             break me.



i want to understand
there is an euxine ocean



beyond my bathtub.