Our homemade choirs, like forest fires,
Hiss 'neath golden rain
And slip the leash and the chain,
And slip the leash and the chain -
Cause some hearts are true
But some hearts aren't hardly true
But some hearts are true
Humanity is the cruellest hunch we wear, an insipid, wee inkling of a sweetness undefined, wedding artifice to ingratuity and a fumbling index finger resting on tongue for the fallen words we seed in others' flesh. And the cherry-red slint you whitishly profile carouses in parallel lines all the grave greed slushed in salival digs, stippled, awful sneers impinging the dells and dimpled cheeks.
Despite all the irony, the plaid-placid assiduousness creeping alongside, I've done my best as lithely in lip as thumb, though no golden aleph will herald me nor tongues loose from the subtle furrows along the slimming folds. You have vested interests in this magnanimity of success, a sweet succour worn of victims struck from cephalopoids, velvet-draped and valenced of indelible-ill ink.
Would that it were cursed instead of mittened in favour, a carbon-silk cold chemise tracing tinder on homely faces, these few silences and reapportioned visions of inecstatic polarity compressing politic in gems.
These things will and end badly for you, tied-up in gamble and towing vista-ponce-de-leons merely wanting of wonting, dreaming it impossible of the never-to-be-alone. So carefully crop your bigoted roots and dye the remainder bland, following the partitions and shaded sulci swirling anti-australialis in milky-spiralled bedevilment.
Carry me home should I alight from the wind, waterdrawn and Aran-clothed, so often besotted and wine-hung. Sing the clapboard houses huddled on the shingle, of the wee stones we toast to while rocking in our sleep. Lead me lamplit-gone-lanterns through the ivory-gloved invernacht, wanly washing, wildly starred with sewn mantras tatting the spoked background bleeding through this coiled corpse we've spun through.
Should you see as I do, would you really-truly, deeply-darkly, the unorthodox whorls of gasply-ghostly fading reticence in the gleaming obscurity, the diminutive murmurs of love and fleeting beauty scaling volumetric curves of lash and thigh. Those architectures of twilight tittling raised to laughable joy.
Come, candle and sash-blown taper, come karma and feral fit, and so we wean ourselves of everything in hopes that we might find it, the afterdark in the slant.