this head like a saucer decorated with everything as lip to lip we hang in mechanical joy; my hands blaze with arias but I think of books on anatomy, and I fall from you as nations burn in anger… to recover from most pitiful error and rebuild, this is it loss and mending until they take us in. the glory of a Saturday afternoon like biting into an old peach and you walk across the room heavy with everything except my love.
obtuse metaphors dont move me much, i like better his work on depravity, that i can relate to