Their Poem.

Does this heart still beat in your dead chest?
The broken vein-
The sallow bone,
It would take a navigator,
Or an autopsy,
To know you,
Catalogue your faces,
[And envy the man
Who has brushed his fingers along any of them]

This cadaver seems to thrive
On art and alcohol,
[Splendour is optional
Taste is mandatory]
If only the juices of nudity,
And melody,
Stopped dripping from your chin,
The cesspool in your wake,
Might dry,

Yet you go on,
Pastel stained,
Ihr lacheln ist heimlich,
Comme un oeil de cire,
And a tongue of sharp wick,
Just waiting to ignite.

But still I'll call you
Lovely,
As the nothing
That compares to you.



















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To save you the trip to a translator:
"Ihr lacheln ist heimlich" (Your smile is familiar/secretive/uncanny)
"Comme un oeil de cire" (Like an eye of wax)