Dickinson knows nothing of Eden,
Neither Wilde of symphonies.
Wild nights and immortality do not compare to what I can give you.
...
When day turns to dark,
When wishes are mine,
I dream of dreamers and butterfly-vines.
...
As she trudges through the veiled path,
frosty powder fills her jean cuffs.
Slowly and surely her freezing feet carve
prints to follow along the steeped bluffs.
...
I looked into his eyes and asked myself,
Is he a man?
I asked myself,
...
I wake up in the morning to a bomb.
Vibrating with thunderous clanking,
It fills my sound ears with napalm.
Pretty sure room 450 can hear it.
...
I must Obey it’s
every Command.
sun up to sun up
i must follow every Demand.
...
There Is None Like Us
Dickinson knows nothing of Eden,
Neither Wilde of symphonies.
Wild nights and immortality do not compare to what I can give you.
Keats and his fair love,
Cope and her valentine,
Nothing transcends my deepest affair to remain true.
I will not sigh after that drink as Yeats does,
nor will I give you only a flower as Fuller would.
A night and flower do not compare to our songs of Solomon.
Holding paint-stained hands with Adrian,
Eloping with Browning,
Loving me I vow to give you all my oxygen.
Red roses and ten thousand miles,
Mistresses and goddesses,
Burns and Shakespeare have never loved as I do.
My dearest sweet amoureux,
I will always love you.