No need
to distort

what’s not

to be

A heart that stops to rest dies, love
     is its punishment. To
close the mouth of a wound, a hand
     must reach inside and, with
fangs of fingers and swallowed fist,
     consume the cancer where

it hides. Sunken heads parting lips

     win a long war with thick
semen proficient now in French
     and Portuguese, those tongues
of lovers each receives. Faces
     creamed ivory bathed blank
by beads of freed pearls blanketing

     over milk-white flesh their

flash’s flush curdles, gain mourned loss.
     A soft misfortune’s mess
endured since it serves the purpose
     of unsettling shot nerves
performing beneath the eyes and
     ears of the world the one

rumour whispers only ever

     rehearse, a curse never
uttered by others hurt before.
     From the bellies of brutes
the cries of babes are heard when purged.
     In the ugliness of
their blood-hunger retelling of

     stolen souls in their vain

reselling retailing for far
     less than their death’s true worth.
Funerary urgency, then,
     frenzies them, imprisoned
inner-children abusing nude
     freedom bandages clothe

buried emotions in. Beauty

     a privilege, mercy
prerogatived by kings to give
     themselves if innocent
of imitating blooms fading
     entombed in urns ashes
waiting their turn to fill fall for.

1Allen Ginsberg, “Written in My Dream by W. C. Williams”, Stanzas 6–8, Lines 11–16, in Poetry (August 1986), published at Chicago by Poetry Foundation in 1986; page 256.