Love is not patient. It is a shriek.
An animal war cry hurled howling against honest probability
Equal parts pride & terror,
       want & revulsion
Forgive me this: the tiredest idea
But it is wood rot, deep in the rings of the tallest of trees
It is a wounded battleship; listing fast, but guns all bristling ardor
Love is the wounded lion. Never more dangerous

Love is not kind. It is a truncheon.
Its wide and swinging arc approaching zenith--
--something between a dull thud & sickening crack.
It is blood and tears and bruises that heal but all too slow.
It is equal parts attack and wound.
It is a wanton warlord, whistling as it slays.
Love is the prowling antagonist in each our bloodstained hearts

Love wants. Absolutely!
You shittin' me?
All Love does is wanting.
& grasp & claw & claim & take & pry
It is the swelling famine spirit, devouring, in the end, even itself

Love boasts. COME ON, now.
It is every aggrandizing lie, that ever
     seeped
          rolled
                dripped
                 ­     spilled or boiled
from my forked & putrid tongue.
It girds itself in the armor of its own unearned self-assurance.
It carries the aegis of the ever-ready, the always-argument;
self-insistent.
It is the drunk friend you thought you had, in the kitchen.
Wine stained kisses.

And I place myself beneath it still?
It is a villain, a liar, a wailing brat.
Love is a predator, shadowed claws.
It is too much.