Why on Earth is my sweet, swift, sorrowful, suffering and salaciously (un)charmed life so eternally, endlessly
and immortally dramatic? Why so countless are the mishaps, the woes, the wounds and the whims? These
acts of sheer theatre, play acting, performance are so futile, yet so undyingly necessary. These scripts as yet
un scripted, these plays as yet unwritten, these dramas as yet undramatised, these words and yet unwritten
and these acts and yet unacted...
Never shall you or anyone else but my sweet, surreptitious self of shy swift switching shares and eternal
exchanges made quickly between our desperate mouths, ever invisibly in their unending night to end all other
nights, never shall you, or I, never shall any one understand me, as I understand you, them, this, that, those...
Never shall you understand me as I do not either, though I understand your sweet self and everyone else
residing upon this shattered, sacred, murdered and massacred Earthly ground of Death.
Never shall I be understood, never more and never after - for my swet bastardising bastard of a brutally
beaten, blood splattered and bruise ridden lovers' lover - I am never to be understood, for I am nothing, no
one, no thing at all, I am no thing to be understood.
Try as you might, attempt, endeavour and set your sweet, fragile heart upon the path towards my eternal
perfecting perfection.
Try as you might, attempt it at your own sweet and etnerally free will you shall never understand me - for you
speak no language of love, just the laughter of lager, therefore, my love, my heart shall no longer be yours, my
hand no longer grasped warmly between your deathly white teeth.
So, I am no one, nothing, nobody, for tonight all alone. I am no one and because of this, there is nothing left in
my world of unworldly words to comprehend, understand, analyse and absorb all the facts are here, ici, laid
bare, naked, trembling and exposed only three, four facts.
These are the only true, truthful truths of my life and love and eternally bittersweet laughter...
First, my loving lover's lying lie of sheer falasy. My hand, held in your own happy one is nothing but the dead
wind's whispered caress, my heart is a cheap, crumling, cliched mound of sweet, sooty black coal. And with
this, my words and my whims are all I have.
This ever mounting, growing, increasingly, evolving, escalating, rising, surmising, surprising, heightening and
ever frightening level of an unsurpassable anxiety of anticipation is almost too much to bear.
For, though I am simply flesh and blood and bone and pain - living, laughing, breathing and groaning, just as
you, my sweet heart of sugarcoated sweet hearts, encased in the whisper thin glass, blown by the fishes'
bubbles of the eternal drowning night, this heart is as fragile a vessel as the sweet soul of a forever undead
angel of death...
So, as I wait here, patiently, complaciantly, compliantly and cooperatively, all pride and respect and self-
worth sweep away, abandoning me in this strange new room of familiar old souls, of God given ghosts, stories
of secrets forever unshared.
I wait, here, forever the waiting waiter of waiting time, made only to wait, I wait, blindly and mutely in
darkness and silence, to be told that my golden mind of rust is forever lost and that I am truly, clinically,
actually, honestly insane.
The sweet path to the city of slumbering lovers' dreams, la jolie Paris, is a path that is forever to be pervasive,
persuasive, perusive and predictably unpredictable, in every poetic form,for the path is long since paves, long
since well trodden, worn flat by the lovers'feet of ancient histories of a passion prior, previous and premiere to
the passions of the current day of plastic pastiches, a plenty and ever more, ever galore.
As these fresh, womb damp, dream fuelled, whim filled, love inspired toes tread gently upon the delicate
dreams of a forgotten lover towards to point of romantic ecstasy, I write a poem to whisper to you, alone.
For this poem is a whisper of an eternal good night.
