red letters on red skin

I had promised to abandon my floating certainties. I believe in dead leaves and bedrooms. Do you drink my well? Do you travel my fountains? All of sudden, trees escape from my bed. I feel the stiff torso of the Story, or Poem. Plunge into the promise in vain, my congealed memories within wine, breast against breast. You, verbs, burn it all again. All the tenderness in the spiders' webs, in vain. I cannot suffer anything but verbs, flowing verbs, without an evasion, nor a shadow. My losses pour in the evening before your return, in the mirror. Now, breathe my empty fingers, my last dry fingers under the weight of broken staircases, your tide, your foreign tide, and quays, and rivers - all suffering remains empty, besides my red letters on red skin.

You know you belong in here: the Age of empty skin. All books burn. All temples burn. Bear the burden of verbs and veins and nerves. Drink my liquid body, Bittersweet, Always Bittersweet, huge emptiness in the signs and windows. You know you still love the seven seas and seven bodies and seven sorrows, oh Breathless Angel. Smile, as though souls were drinkable

Once in my life I met a naked princess in the Beginning of Intelligence. Her gaze was pure electricity, writing against death, writing against the last word, within my saliva, warm and endless, from morning till night, instantly, as though souls were drinkable. I withdraw my lips, it goes on and on. I smoke the huge vapor, while the heart trembles, lonely steps toward the train the carriage the flesh, the first sign, off fear.