love in the form of writing is exhausting,
the sort of love chained
to a grave and epitaph,
a man might utter a million
maxims, truths without proofs,
as many observations as the are
scales on a skin of a serpent,
           in that hue of green hidden
subtle variations:
    windowpane arts of a gothic
church...
                because a woman suddenly thinks
herself the Madonna, the vehicle
for what remains in the most common
thread of thought: a deity of ouroborus.
yet i still managed to steal kisses
from prostitutes, i still don't understand
what the problem is, given the legality
of the practice...
but the older prostitutes know
that a kiss is the first, and last taboo
in their "work"...
         why are the most beautiful women
prostitutes? i mean beauty in
the immediate sense, prone to
the cyclone of change, here one minute,
gone the next...
           and if this is all i can boast about,
stealing kisses from giddy almost
        teenage in reaction prostitutes...
   that smile and shy laughter haunts me,
it follows me whenever the light is
not too bright, hazy dim auburn...
    tickling a lucidity of the act in amber...
forever resting resting in winter green
leviction above decay...
   brown and pumpkin orange without
citrus sharp neon zest,
juice like poisonous phlegm
    shooting from a viper's gob...
i managed to transcend the taboo
of prostitutes...
steal kisses and kiss eyes oozing tears,
as she sat on me and said she was tired
i'd say to her:
      plenty more other things
can take up the hour spread like Persian
before us...
       and always with these women
i could allow myself the sort of heart
that was bearable to be carried...
     asymmetry of the four horsemen
and the one behind,
    a fool riding a donkey...
        too many people come across
iconoclasm of a life most perfect,
lasting for a mere 3 years of a congregation...
apparently the ancient Romans
used to jump ****-naked into nettles
to improve their circulation...
because a nettle itch is not the sort of
itch from, god knows what...
smoked European sprats...
        or skippers (schprotkí) -
pull the head off, and eat the whole fish,
spine included...
          you don't want to know
what russians eat while drinking...
certainly not crisps or peanuts...
            as far as I'm concerned,
the world came to Königsberg,
                       not the other way round...
but still the joy of body touching
body, talk, psychiatric talk in condoms...
false memory implants, regression,
keep em to the mind-****
   i need to talk with a body
  at 37°C, feverish...
                        someone without a need
to posture, and out on la rochefoucauld
airs...
         and if all i ever did was steal
a kiss from a *******, then i can be
most joyous whenever else humbled...
                  giddy like a first kiss schoolgirl,
face contorting with giggles
    and squint devilish eyes...
almost like a ****** maiden from the XIV
or XV century historical novel about
chivalry...
               comparisons to ripe fruit
aplenty: apples, pears, berries...
                  and no, women will not know
the sentiments a man might have toward
prostitutes...
        her tongue a chisel striking for
crumbs of stone from my heart,
elsewhere the mind rather than a heart
of man as the labyrinth...
         elsewhere a fickle circumstance
of non-reciprocal loyalty of merely one
word... stay...
             hardly asking for a woman on
a leash...
   such perfect loves,
so much writing about love...
     a love a must a loyalty a trust...
   odes and ideals of this fickle cupid
muse, a chance of poison arrow landing
not where it ought...
           but at least with a stolen
kiss, an hour can give sustenance
for a year... a year filled by a conversation
of two bodies, and four eyes,
    and heist of Jezebel's *****...
flirting butterflies and that bourbon
perfumery of the dim lit rooms
of amber...
                 a stolen kiss,
         the unmatched stone heart...
caging, rather than being caged...
           a canary on the tip of a rhino's
ivory pride...
               that's all because i simply
think that I'd be unable to sit with a woman
watching television...
perhaps if she's my grandmother i might,
and I do... but she's my grandmother...
  sharing a siamese moment with
a woman is to then reduce it to
conversations over a television?
      that's one part of life I don't have
a heart to indulgence myself in.