i.

     Send me a French postcard
that smells of trampled flowers, musked
     with unsympathetic
simulations of passing love,
     imitate my pretence
of wanting to be wanted, paint
     intimate the lustlorn
combusting anonymity
     of your fading presence,
unmask, nameless love, a shepherd
     dedicating poems
to me unasked, throwing your Self
     on rocks no one wants to
drag their wishes upon, flaming
     falling stars to blazing
comets, taming sharp tongues of lost,
     wandering flocks tasked with
force, encouraging us both to
     blow up into a growth
of thorns, turning toward the words
     leading us away from
this world into another verse
     choosing which of our mouths
it wants to scar with empathy,
     feeling suddenly what
the other felt, what we let scrawl,
     toothed and clawed, across lips
ill-equipped to handle this loss
     our fathers called reason
enough to not get involved, all
     pastoral and caring
until shadows of ugliness
     veil bucolic pastel
pageantry, sully their only
     shot at carrying on
what plot neither of us ever
     wanted from the start, to
live as they did, ashamed, hated
     by strangers in secret,
dampened screams of tacit distress
     meeting in makeshift beds

                    ii.

at the ends of guttural streets
     no maps bother to trace
the origins of, feckless fiends
     and friendless weaklings, we
must have seemed a glutton’s bounty
     of pitiful and damned
beauties eating the garnish on
     weekends to strengthen our
hearts’ muscles, build up their resolve,
     against the coming week’s
repeated beatings, freaks, werewolves,
     hiding behind the feigned
nobility of ancient names
     we inherited as
if their sole, aching purpose were
     to identify the
ones to blame for taking from these
     scenes their meaning, diseased
fruits ruining lineages,
     bitterness pissing fast
away vestiges of better
     vintages, mistaking
vagrant yesteryears of ignored
     misfortunes for future
virtues, withering from honoured
     family its guilt’s poor,
tawdry iconography of
     decency, our one vague
reason for existing to fake
     being satisfied with
its pain, to satisfy lies with
     conclusions, this lifestyle’s
unjust aphasia erasing
     from our rushed kisses these
sentiments I resent having
     sent you when I should have
been denying my innocence
     your body’s corruption,
since wanting it made of my own
     reflection Narcissus
poison more potent than venom.