Your back, small and slender
As the fragile legs of a spider
Made to be adored
Too much to be touched

There is a flame on the tip of every lover's brow,
The shame they have felt
Now loads their death pistols.
Hunting peacocks and collecting blood diamonds
Greedy palms glistening with anticipatory luminosity...

Is to wake to a chorus
Of vaporous illustrations
Wing tips dipped
In the pale of her lips
Whispers the sky
To the brown haired girl
Who paints the dawn

Composed of light
Through half-closed blinds
A visual symphony
Perceived without eyes
The skin on my hands
Contours the rays
And bends her back
Gently to me

Rivers whisper awful things
Their sandpaper tongues scrape
Softly
Little bones of young

A waterbird eats his tongue
"Fearful!" screams its death
Still softer
Than a watery whisper

An owl of effortless beauty
offers vainglorious thought
And qualms between protruding ribs
Knowing its death will be a passionate movement
A contrast among still branches
Of grey trees beside her

Watching from a window,
All I hear is water.

There is a painting somewhere
Between my eyes,
Its dark affections lay beside me
Smelling of rotten fruit
And all that I know of sweet evil,
A perfume
Grossly intoxicating and murderously romantic
Like some kind of pale horse,
Filled with little men who want my blood.