Thought Industry Blistered Text And Bleeding Pens
In life I'm skin stretched to form my body. With life
We can hope to grow old alone. In life all is well.
Strapped empty to a placid dream. In the fields is
where
I belong. Blistered text and bleeding pens.
In life we are one. Extensions of each other. With life
We can find that death is on the outside, in life all
is
Well, left dancing a laughing tree. In the hills is
where I
Belong. Blistered text and bleeding pens.
Venice please will you hide my face and change my
Eyes. Friends aren't friends. They look to themselves.
Their advice is wrong. Selfish. Blatant. On the Bridge
of
Sighs a piece of bleeding art. Mold me still with
plaster
Joints and a pompous grin. I shall die within my song.
Your life for my life.
Your life for my life.
Your life for my life.
Your life for my life.
The Rialto. Buy here, sell there. I see a face.
Carletta.
The Rialto. Thieves and lovers, mimes and jugglers,
Read me poems from Venetia. Of tired men with hearts
Of gold. Of the whore without a neck. So the palace
Guards could not take her head. Dead. My. Head.
In pools we swirl beyond the point of transition. All
Must try. All must fail.
The Renaissance Ants crawl deep in her mouth,
Yea. Across her breasts and within her thighs. Christ
has
Known these thighs before. The Ants of Enlightenment
Have her moaning to their cause. She chews on the
Ants still trapped in her teeth. Christ has known this
Mouth before.
At the Grand Canal Carletta cries. The gondolier
Says, "Wipe your face, whore". I just laugh, now
looking
Down. The gondola's a paper swan. Pulp.
On the mezzanine I watch the old man scream. Like
Cats ripping doves apart wing by wing. Violins,
Tangerines, and one glass eye. I love Carletta and with
That I sigh.
Who wins? Who wins you? Forgive? Forgive. I could
Not choose; and both poets lose. We lose.
