Sunday, 14 March 2010

Your love.

I'll prostrate myself,
degrade myself,
for you,
and your love.

I'll defile myself,
beguile myself,
to have
your love.

I'll be your serf -
your personal slave;
your chattel,
and your dirty knave.

I will
bend over,
but I know
you don't want that;

it's what I'm 
led to believe -
these spineless love songs
pour all over me.

I want you.

Your eyes
and your biting tongue;
will I ever see you?

Your layers don't show;
let me take them apart
like watered wafers.

I don't know what's
going on with you;
end up pining over you,
writing pop lyrics.

I can't engage you,
though I really want to.
I want to open up to you
without fear that I might enamour
my organs with a sheen.

We talk plastic,
and think plastic -
but we want to act

The thing is always easier
to label,
but where are the schematics?

I want to drive you.
I want to kiss you.
I want to feed off of you.
I want you.

Thursday, 11 March 2010


I don't need fables
to justify my existence.

For once,
the Earth rises and sets;
instead of the Sun.

I look outside my species,
and outside my being.

Before one can grow,
one must know oneself.

I look beyond the familiar
into mists full of arcane things.

What was once rusted
becomes gold-tipped;

what was once tasteless
develops myriad flavour.

I don't need anything,
but it'd be nice to have your love.