the age of romance

of course I love you
even though your stars are the fever of night
even though
they come and go like flies on a side of beef
even though
they sit on a washing-machine
and your spikes draw me from my bath to spit at the moon
and the moon is never there
and whenever you speak you fall off the edge of your chair
the green-eyed idol melting in the rain
whose central cleft can open the door of the world
and you are both sides of the door
one hand holding an egg and the other a spoon
as the third thrusts down the zipper of your jeans
you congeal into your plate like a toad on a stone
and your lips are the colour of air

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