O! sweet Angel;
cherub; seraph; beautiful nymph,
cradle the night in
delicate French hands,
bend it to match your invisible
words, your intangible sentences.
You have the most beautiful face
in Europe, did you know that?
The eyes, vacant and holy;
the mouth, tender and rose-shaped;
the nose, delicate like veneer;
the twilight black and white
plays off the intelligence
in your face
and howls out mad words,
brilliant words, works
of art.
We are a breed
trapped in your silken
and desolate stare,
forever to study you and
scrutinize you, your fiendish ways,
your rambunctious poetries--
your poetries are published
in Heaven, did you know that?
They are made of glass and I am
afraid that my hands may
crush them when
I bring my fingers across
newly-printed pages.
My own poetries are so *******,
demonic; Enoch smiles
in the land of the dead and
prepares them for printing.
My own nature is so bland,
so ritualistic, so uninteresting;
I am not a ***,
I am not a rebel,
I am not a drug fiend;
I am a student
playing at being an anarchist.
But your lice-infested sheets
are gone and burned.
Your lover's hand,
now decayed beneath the French earth.
The ***** dens of Paris,
the absinthe dens of Paris,
seem to be gone.
You would not enjoy it here
anymore.
I hope I find you in Heaven,
for you have the most angelic
face in Heaven--
the clouds pale next to you,
the cherubs with their trumpets
turn away and weep.
I hope I find you in Heaven,
for we have a lot to teach
one another.
