Osiris Rex Poems

O Sage and Poet if love were what the rose is and I were like the heart. To love the rose, a love for beauty no woman can take. If any man would be a genuine lover may they gently touch women and flowers. Everyone that will ever love of a woman we love with a noble love. Women have written us great novels of love. I’ve never loved anyone else the way I love them. But can women write as well as scholars can? Love was the word they never said aloud. A novel about love cannot be written while you are making love. It must be real love then if a man gives up his life for a woman. I suppose that there are few men like that left, like actors in a Greek Tragedy. It is noble to die of love. Sweet is death that takes the end by love. After so many deaths, I live and write of love the light guitar. These yellow vowels of bright desire.

Of all the ways I could say, 'You are dreaming, ' I choose the voice that speaks of love. Is it even possible that we can establish friendship truer than blood itself? What is love? A madness most discreet. Is life not love? What wine? What drug? Love is. Here is love more attractive. Such is love the same beauty that I love. Does love levitate? Is it in heaven? Is heaven any different from where we are? As if an angel dropped down from the clouds.
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Cupid, O naughty boy who some do loathe. I pluck your rose and love you more than women, then the good minute goes. Like nothing human, O Cupid, but the fairest of winged species. Had we the wings many of us would take flight. We live in a generation where Cupid is considered a religion. Cupid spreads his charms, but charm not all alike, on different senses different objects strike. For every cupid let there be ecstasy, let us not be lonely. Drowning in love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest. Love's too precious to be lost, a little blood shall not be spilt. Wisdom was a woman that loved sonnets and serenades. Our magic syllables melt away, our bodies lay nude along the seashore, since this morning it is with a vocabulary made wholesomely profane, open in lexicons for our foes to translate that we endeavor each in his idiom to express the true magnolia.

Oh, poor me, I must both write and love. Oh hope of mine whose eyes are living love, no eyes but hers, oh love and hope be the same to me. The angel that we wrestle is ourselves. To my love add love. My love and I did walk together and sweet were the words she said to me. The delicate day of love we two share. To love her is far more cruel than to hate. The gnomes stop stealing and convert their religion into flowers. While the dove has brought us an olive branch to eat. I have felt the pull of her desire. Oh, come, come closer, come and touch, come nearer, be flesh to my flesh. Come down, O Cupid, come down, down. When love is flowering, logic will not do. A man and a woman, and an arrow on a string. It is Cupid who weighs nothing, so that the fat dreamer himself can fly without wings. O wings, can our wings match the weight of him!
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