Harps and Cactus
Who should notice the coal that spurts out of my pit, the one without a bottom? I am only wasting away, in a passionate gaze. The look they gave me,
I took and tortured. So that it makes their stoned hearts no longer empty pockets.
Drive me to the pond. I need to wash out the dead you left in my ears. Your decomposed matters.
All too soon, we will be sunken, shipwreck carried from their burials. Longer the minutes will be and I will turn myself into charcoal. With the thorns gathered from intimacy, you string your instruments.
And your gentle plucking will quake the potted plants.