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They may, because I would not cloy your ear—
If ever these songs by other ears are heard—
With 'love'; suppose I loved you not, but blurred
Lust with strange images, warm, not quite sincere,
To switch a bedroom black. O mutineer
Wíth me against these empty captains! gird
Your scorn again above all at this word
Pompous and vague on the stump of his career.

Also I fox 'heart', striking a modern breast
Hollow as a drum, and 'beauty' I taboo;
I want a verse fresh as a bubble breaks,
As little false... Blood of my sweet unrest
Runs all the same—I am in love with you—
Trapped in my rib-cage something throes and aches!


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 30 Aug 2008 12:26 AM | Viewed: 2670 times

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