My Love, my Beauty, I'm your pink corn cockle,
Your hematic filbert cracked under a hard sun,
Folded in fury, bent in a quarter-moon
Against coins of banked snowpoints, silver and yellow.
Hemorrhaging like an upended, pierced slug
In fetid spittoon, I trail my slime through
Sheets clean and white, stock meta-whores of shock,
And shamble on the crumbled coral shelf.
Romantic as harmonic rats under
A groaning wharf, I sit on a block of the bay
And moan from overproof grief a melange
Of rondos to choke the bones in Chopin’s grave,
Semitones aquiver atop a floating fo’c’sle.
Ethereal One, it's an ideal sham
From garbled words and feelings I never had,
Rambling on Gods and bods, respect, neglect.
The metronomic waves are counterpoint.
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