Words of varying strengths fucking and punching one another, lighting cigarettes and putting on coats. All creating shadows that we call poems with a queer read on them.
If I am beautiful am I real? Like the boys on the 24th floor They are beautiful I don't know how to reach them I don't know how they got there Are they real? Are they the small book of poems Left beneath Sebastian's tree A page for each face A sonnet for each precious, beautiful, life of the boys on the 24th floor Each pulling at the others clothes baring chests and thighs some smooth like stone Some coarse with hair like velvet If I am beautiful Do I exist Do these boys on the 24th floor exist? Are they merely the temperature, the weather? The blush across my cheeks? How do I find this hidden floor? Where the bed is a sacred alter Holding those Beautiful fellows Are the words of the bible A book for each? Or merely strains of Liliaceae Showing their holy strength in the force of their stalk and colour They are the beautiful Those boys on the 24th We artist and poets we search for ever And what of us? Are we not beautiful? Are we not real? Why is it we never find the 24th...
Jonathan, the publishers have not called today, only my mother She says she has a brain tumour, merely benign, a bruise, a shadow, Jonathan, I trust you will keep this to your self for now, I don't want the world thinking she is dying, when she isn't While on the phone to my mother, while thinking of you I noticed that, the perfect silver owl that you bought me has gone missing It saddened me and I couldn't explain it It was the last thing of you in my house, except for your letters Except for the Iris that you planted out by the gate, while singing Persian folk songs Jonathan, I was always your student, with crooked buttons and dirty face Happy to follow you, to smell your scent mixed with aftershave, Listening to you as you spoke of countries that no longer exist, Hearing of your friends, the priest, the latin teacher, the poet and the sailor Feeling you put your arm around me, or smelling your cooking in the evenings Your laugh was lou...
Take to the woods and walk amongst the dead flower heads Do you pretend you are alone or pretend you have company? There amongst the forgotten roads that lead to gorges and plains Would you have followed leaders that would have discovered them for mapping purposes Maybe ultimately crawling into their tents to cut their throats or make love to them Unreasonably meeting the voices that are deep and come into your dreams You become jealous of the seasons and jealous of the sliding clouds Nobodies fault and nobodies victim you fall into the mindset That nobody will call your name at night, nobody will miss you And I don't know if you should write autobiographies dedicated to the street Wearing gritted smiles on one end with worn out shoes on the other But you are the son with the golden hair, you are the son with the broad shoulders I'm not going to sing the song that is about your life, about your voice About the times you have fallen behind And with all the lett...
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