Follow you

I have only been
under the skin of your lesiure
well the pleasure is all yours i'm sure
the door is open, why don't you just
walk right thrugh it?
why don't you -

Give me one good reason to die?

I have ripped a hole in you
to touch the heart
as it continues beating.
A fleeing ghost right through those veins of mine
THAT BAD OLD BRAIN OF MINE.
and it stays
it has lasted forever
and -

I am tired now
The body's sleeping, the roses grow right
over the skin, the lungs are breathing
Breathing.
You think that it hates you, but it has
only forgotten you, I have only torn
through the first
circle of hell, i'm climbing, climbing
down

to follow you

Your skin is leisure that i touch
breaks like the spindle that i live from.
Lover December, your countenance is the door
through which is held the grains
of all i cannot remember. I choose not to see
how strangely they grow wings, and breed
teeming out from beds of stranger's, through the eyes
i hold them back, those blank invaders
pupils blown, like stones thrown in the foxhole
that i pray in. Mary, Mary

Would you please excuse the actions, of which i am wary?
would you catch the blood in butter
cups? the april flowers - that have grown to spite
the purges of the winter.My brick shoe,t the snow boot
shines bright under the quickening moon
Quicker than the hol i ripped in  you, Europe
quicke than the teeth i have for tearing the
heart from you. We are divided, dissected for our parts,
on kitchen tables, the blood dries, it is ink for the moths
and the wine fly. I am drunk on river water,

We have our oown ways of thinking, when i climb
the gallows you climb the alter. When i sleep you touch the
fragile sky of heaven. i reach through your sky and i devour
the god you speak of, his blood is pale, it showers
from the blue and feeds the orchids.

Your skin is leisure that i touch
breaks like the spindle that i live from.
Lover December, your countenance is the door
behind which i am held in rapture.
Held the grains.

of all i cannot remember. I choose not to see
how strangely they grow wings, and breed.
How they have flourished, while those sickly
bones i planted failed to seed. Yours,
teeming out from beds of stranger's, through the eyes
i hold them back, those blank invaders
pupils blown, like stones thrown in the foxhole
that i pray in. Mary, Mary

Would you please excuse the actions, of which i am wary?
would you catch the blood in butter
cups? the april flowers - that have grown to spite
my purging winter.
My brick shoe, the snow boot of your armies.
Evil eye - under the quickening moon

We are divided, dissected for our parts,
on kitchen tables, the blood dries, it is ink for the moths
and the wine fly. I am drunk on river water,

We have our oown ways of thinking, when i climb
the gallows you climb the alter.
When i sleep you touch the
fragile sky of heaven.

i reach through your sky and i devour
the god you speak of,
his blood is pale, it showers
from the blue and feeds the orchids.

On your bed, the land of ashes,
you see this fire does not burn, it quenches?