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Ancient Ode to a Momentary Flame
we speak here dialects of narcissismwith inflections recognizable enough, each to the other, to devise an effective bastard language. no comfort here, on this exquisite bed of nails upon which we weep lacerated blood-tears: you and i will never go gently into that good night. as you saunter, languid, upon the plush red carpet unrolled beneath your feet, you will, perhaps, forgive meand, soothed by the honeyed adulation of watery voices echoing in the seashell held to your ear,
Ancient Ode to a Momentary Flame-p. 2 of 3 pp.
you will forget. hothouse flowers weoverwrought, perfumed, who would wear, in deepest night, each other’s selves like skinsaflame and veiled in a dark cloak of soulhunger, sensation, aweunfettered by responsibility: a kind of truthlike skins peeled and shed at sunrise in exchange for stale uniforms of dawn, when the world of appearances holds sway. laughter is anesthesiaday’s remedy for night’s terrible cathartic cravings, souls bound in bittersweet barbed wire, vampiric ecstasy which day dissolves
Ancient Ode to a Momentary Flame-p. 3 of 3 pp.
and betrays. seek then the reassuring smiles and creature comforts of day: the cool drink, the easy chair, the warm, lazy, sunlit afternoon. and, if on some cool, innocuous evening, a delicious hot breeze slaps you in the face, musky-scented, enthralling, causing tired blood to tingle like molten lavaif, then, your glance wanders towards the horizon, where the moon plummets earthwards, id-drunk, ravingdo not linger there! a warm, inviting supper awaits you inside...