PERSONAL MESSAGE Comments

You can't see anything of it and its not contagious either.
But... what did you say your age was, twenty?
The milky way galaxy turns around,
it seems behind my eyes.
This goddess puts not a hair's breadth
in the way above: just let it shower.
Or falling stars.

Hope, for a bargain: you can grow old with it.
‘How to tell such a thing?'
The one in the white jacket's crushingly counting his schedules
to no avail: she has got it, she has not got it,
she has not got it, she has got it.
That certain knowledge can compel another lie
in the form of emotion, the little sun

prods festively through the windows of the clinic.
The old man, probably a GP, would, after all, also, rather not.
His lousy job. To be twenty, ditto.
What about going to the park in the afternoon? Raping a birch?
Or after the subway filling your stomach at nice M&S
with plates of schnaps and string quintet ‘Correct'?
Mrs Vegter surprises an autonomous war-lust.

Now nothing said and a page blank
& whetting knives for going into the Lord.
For desirable.
...
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