20th Century Fox

Hell.
Why talk myself
out of craving for no reason?

‘Un-beckon these feelings,’
I ask the trained specimens
on TV–
but they do nothing
to un-tempt me.

Hail Eros!
ascribed so
mechanically by the
western elite:
‘I am yours, and you are mine.’
‘I am carrying your child, are you angry?’
‘I rub my face into yours with
every pore exchanging
the rasp of eternity,
I balm my wounds with the promise
of your sweet sex at my feet!
If we die, we die together,
And together we will beg for release;
Fill your heart’s desire with me!’

And together we
form a prism where a lover’s light
beams, and a prison
when ignored
or displeased

I can see the newborn babe of this treatise;
smoking, hungry, diseased,
trolling behind him
the thousand fallacies;
the love notes
his parents never wrote–

‘I love you,’ he said
to no-one
because his love would not return;
not even as echoes.

Turn the camera on.
Say it to the little red light.
Watch it again and again
to make sure you said it right.
Edit out the dirt,
then light it on fire–
this
is
the
countdown
to
disaster.