FRENCH SUICIDE
French suicide
the blade in your mouth
cuts my tongue with iron
and saw dust
dry and wet
blood and wood
tire and blossoming
flames from the
barricade against
your love
blind though it is
it holds me brilliantly
against the surrounding life
of my night’s work
among the flowers
of dead acoustic jealousy.
By the time I have
opened your bud to the
swell of my lips
I feel no time
for it is about one’s soul
that should be glittered
and not forbidden
as some will
have it. To be
here in the ends of the starting line
makes for the words
to come less frequently
between puffs of air
I scowl at you
and wonder if you will
finish ahead of me
before they run
away again.
