must i long for
the scarlet rain
that
did not phlebotomise,
did not secrete
from
codeine clouds,
if the milk would be spilt.
must i conceive ignus fatuus
colourcasts from the television
inside a mouth
that caterwauls
faces of static and pollen
and Klaus Nomi masks
as if i were lobotomised
eating flowers fingered out of
the flesh of the brain
carnations would not exist.
i do not want to believe
the promise
of lovers were
merely yous' and
eyes'.
no such world is eyeless.
or any less without eyes.
become my chalk and bones.
i want to believe
humanity
is a defined mass
of bathypelagic insects
sleeping in chrysalids
longing to be
broken.
break me.
i want to understand
there is an euxine ocean
beyond my bathtub.