midnight forgery

for the forty-seventh time. i have failed. my patience. my reveries. ah.

and when i build up those little frustrations. it hurts my conscience. aches in tremor. and passages from a monotone. i used to read them. when i was ten. in a corner by the alleyway. crisp and clear. and yell at the costermongers. oh how dandy they were. and their ivory nails. painted with blood and margarine. beautiful gluttony.

i left you behind. and i do not regret it. at all. honestly. and the more i move away. i feel a warmth. it's right. and i take away what i told you. that tuesday evening by the lake. for you may go. walk out of my life. forever. please.

and remember when you murmured. they want you dead. i cringed in fright. oh what a world. i used to say. and the inflamed beauty.

god is dead. remember how you used to read me the words. from your little rhyme of nietzsche. those are gone. militated against.

twirl your skin and smile your print. i will go away.

friday the third

as you sigh, and wave at your future. wistfully yet excitedly. it reminds me of many years ago. when i was a little boy. in a sharp design. scratching nails against the marble. at the palace. and my wandered through every pocket of misery. ah. what a disaster unfolded in front of my eyes. but now i am here. across shores. tingling my fingers. in the motion of a beckoning.

and you should know who you are. to whom i speak. like a melancholic bludgeon split my soul in dainty smithereens. and i wait here. every day. across time and temperament.

and i dream of the martyrs. and brave souls. dead soles. scathing pain. and the fleur-de-lis.

i miss you. again. that is all.