There was something in her atmosphere of breathing
The ebb and heave of respiration
The suck and shove of our
     Inept
          copulatory 
               Collisions
That brought devotion to her pliant mouth
But not the rest of her...

So I held my breath in an orgiastic act
Of self deprivation,
As I, the poet, with little or no ambition,
Readily succumb to the illusion that
"An artist must suffer for his passion, his craft.
As if "poverty" would become "poetry"
By simply removing the "V"

So she lived  her days in inches
Subconsciously striving to scribble out
The ugly archaic world
The way history ends and doesn't
And begins again
     A disease of time
Her sentiment quaked like contrite children
And in empathy mine like pensive liquid
Our hands and fingers...(chock full of god)
Chaotic as clowns about our bodies
Concievably full but emty of purpose...

She saw the horizon as mere background
For the human condition and
Believed the thoughts of stars
Held men in place.

When I though of this I laughed
Into an empty sky
Knowing that with whatever hand
I build, demolish or protect
I'll lubricate the unreal at the cost of all reason
And consume the ecstasy
      In every
          Concieveable
               Conviction

She saw me as a coated candy,
Outside hard an un-chinkable,
Inside soft and creamy
And like a candy she devoured me
Not fully digesting
Sometimes what you eat
     Eats you
Nor did she realize the universe
     And its' objects,
          Torn from whatever womb
In some obscene instant of lucidiy,
Would show her that we exist
Only in the quixotic
Dysfunction of words...