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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s