O' is it me and her I see in my dream, feeding on the dancers last leg-
O' is it us that cries for the pain in lost love, or the affair of pleasure hiding in thy mountain's peak-
O' I say let her come to me softly, slowly, and with great fists, fiery and dripping wetness in my wound-
O' fair country side, where the stream flows in opposite direction-
O' where I see thy fish drunkenly waiting for the sea otters-
O' otters of the sea, king of the night, why has thy heart sunken in her eyes, why does the bear not eat her berries-
O' is she tired and long in the way we stand-

In my sleep,
dreams,
we are civil.
We are friends.

We laugh and smile like we used to.
We talk and share secrets.

You are no longer my enemy.
Someone I loathe

hate

In my sleep,
dreams,
we are not lovers again.
We are friends.

And that is all I ask for.

i took the ideas
out of my skull
and i placed them on the mantle
above the fireplace
I watched as they twitched
in the orange flame

i am the weary product of destruction
you were just another friend of mine
i once knew what to do with myself
but i soon forgot

we sat on the couch
and observed my half-born creations
you spoke empty wisdoms
into my hollow mind
all the while pretending
that there was something
to admire

before long the distance became
a pocketful of torn ticket stubs
a collection of subway maps
a string of missed phone calls
i doused the living room in gasoline
and dropped a match on the floor

through the window i watched
as the ideas on the mantle
turned to orange flame

Politely, the drunken gentleman
loosened the knots of my dress.
His fingers were spiders and
everywhere they bit, I burned.

Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.