The way I'm going now,
I'd probably crash into your living room:
tearing apart the art-deco set up
with my red car,
mashing art and steel into a subculture
of hate, and the unrequitedness of love.

Baby,
I'm rocketfuel and bedding-
I'm churning up the cotton into kindling
and I'm burning so bright
I don't think I'll be able to top this.
I won't be able to top this.

I'm swallowing air and the sea,
the sea can wait a little while,
I'm yelling so hard at the waves my
throat has more salt than your tears,
listen

you don't need conch shells to hear
me pleading for you; strumming six songs a second
and wailing into a chorus of
"I'm sorry" and "I love you";

it almost sounds like

I'm apologising.

O the gorgon dread
contorting me to stone
setting my heart to a place
from whence I craved to fled

O the piercing raw gaze
setting my body to necroses
by a gale of unrequitedness
tearing my presence until it fades

O the beguiled smile
putting my nature to cofliction
with faith placed in a better you
a hope that brings nothing but arousal

O the persuasive tongue
pulling my strings of emotion
flaring me with wings
until I burn too close to the sun

O the reflection I see
of this person who looks just like me
is as unfamiliar as the next
for I plunged this self into the depths of the sea