November 28, 2002








  • Alas!  Behold the forlorn lover: love of the heart never leaving the loins.  Though life has never been more real, to reach out and embrace just loneliness, or more precisely, just unjust loneliness, is a too friendless gesture, dejectedly employed.


     


    Just to dread: what makes life miserable-
    Wishing either to consummate love or drop dead.


     


    But instead, subliming dreamt nocturnes of rippling entwinement
    To involuntary writhings that mourn of matters queerly bereft.


     


    Enough.  Enough time and energy mislaid.  Perhaps the lover’s lover answers not because the disjoint of time has them cast them apart beyond the continuity of each other’s 'now': one living at this moment, the other a hundred years past or hence.  What strangeness is that?  How dare time, with such cruel invention, devise true love to wreck?


     


    But time, too, vanishes.  It only has so long to fuck around until its toys are mortally spent.  What rattles in the crib, yet quickens the pace to become the celebrated baton of a social relay race in the stride of life, still ends up rattling again as shifting bones in the grave. 


     


    And what know bones alone after desire has fled?

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