Love and Demons, 1994


Scars of the heart from the first violence of love

Image of my lover: ravaged and violated

murderous. equally afraid for both of our lives

We hated ourselves but then so trusting

Her eyes never looked at me with tears–

but I have witnessed her despair,

quiet bellows of agony from the guts of a wounded soldier:

The fundamental shame of being a spectator;

I’m peeking at her scarred heart.

How beautiful. The sinister attraction.

I loved them as I loved you: with exclamation

 

What are we together again?

 

This. The disturbing closeness of half naked bodies

Murderous.

 

I had the privilege to hear her play violin infront of me

She was strikingly alike her music. Sad from being out of tune

My love is banished. Shame and pride.

She was murdered by herself and I’ve watched her closely

Hence, the spectator of this heinous crime; an accomplice

This unspoken night. Jesus.

Look how she spilled her cold blood. Artless.

 

Now I’m burying her, lover born 1994 of June.

Will chrysanthemums grow out of your grave?

 

You are distant and the night roamed with the

fragrance of death

Put the pen down. This is what we deserve.

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