Last 'eve I came upon my Walk
which said to me in baneful talk,
"Do carry on,
the day is gone,
and do not sit to write or squawk!"

I stood up in exasperation,
heeding to the consultation,
by chance I see,
oh could it be?
My one and only Adoration!

"My Love, my Dear,
why do you linger?"
Said my Darling unto me.
"You stay too long
in Thought and Song
and do not work,
nor lift a finger!"

"This Poem's my work,"
I quick defended,
"All these Abstracts I've befriended.
It takes a long time
to convince them to rhyme
and my poem's not halfway ended!"

Just then Leisure showed up on the scene.
"Why would you say that?
Why be so mean?
Can't you see that she works hard
'most every day?
Those nouns, verbs, and adjectives
get in the way!"

He said this to shield me
from Love's wicked glances.
With Tweedle and Dum
and a bottle of ***
he sat down to enjoy my advances.

I cut open my body
to see what was there:
Anatomy, Soul,
or some Alien's Lair.

But to my surprise
I inevitably found
That cogs, wheels and gears
Were spinning around.

"A machine! A machine!"
I angrily cried.
Got sick of this "life,"
Took acid, and died.

The way you put your hand upon my thigh:
You do not move,
You do not stroke;
You only press and you
stay.
You make my body ache for you.

I know I'm not supposed to love you anymore,
but still you let me lay with you,
My forehead against your shoulder,
My fingertips tracing the
sea
on the inside of your elbow.

In the middle there is no sea, just
sky
and
sky,
which is a sort of
sea,
you say.
Then trace the
sky
along my clavicle,
My Not-Supposed-To Love,
and I'll tattoo my love for you in the stars you leave behind.