What's the purpose of all this, this being the hurry. We're making us up anyway so why not be regal, modest kings of fierce intent. We walk this land. We want stuff fast. That's the funny thing. Imagine the man getting off his horse and squatting in the grass on a hill for hours, sniffing everything coming.
Here we are me naked on the thin oriental taking your picture. Dylan Thomas playing cards with Othello, Des helping Caitlin with the tea, Bob in the alley. If you counted all the darlings and gasps of truth escaping wouldn't that make a day though. Everybody who loved anybody then left or got left. All the troths worried into accomodation.
There's almost no fear of not being loved anymore. You love him and it ends up bad. We're poorly served by our instincts is all I can say. Intuition's preferable, more trustworthy. If we could be all instinct about the comforts of love the way it can get if old people survive their darlings to exalt living well that's rare.
I'm not saying this because I'm hiding from love. I'm not saying it to imply nobody's loving anybody; there are folks getting their love on pretty good. There's a lot of love and look at our freedoms they continue remarkable.
What should be abiding isn't always and we go places we feel inveigle harmony like cathedrals or the reflexologist or beneath canoe to the whispering stream. We should be everything so we don't have to go looking because that's what queers things going looking. Things may come looking for us and that would be preferred. We could be where things should look and then all the promises could suspend themselves in a proper sort of disbelief or something.
Darling who are we fooling when we go darling. When I hug you my pale freckled lover your deliquescent skin will remind me of butterscotch after I've made allowances with my mouth and I am moving with you so close your eyes and mouth are planes and shadows shifting on the pillow I call you baby and darling brings me to that rolling morte and Othello yells keep it down and who's he telling me that.
Naked women in wet mackintoshes is what Dylan Thomas wanted to see when he came to America and when he died with 90 poems and the news reached Cait she broke a crucifix and they had to wind her in a sheet to protect and move her. Darlings were everywhere out killing for love on the slick streets with a dissipated rhyme scheme, and such a thirst for it.
Cover art with liner notes for an imaginary album.