The Sorely-Spent Suicide

This is for the man of whom my letters are all for -- and why an Art exam destroyed me.

Don't let me think of you, darling dear--

The quick elastic snap of my impressionability

Will break wind the minute your rags and eyes

Look into me like a bank, of superior rank--

My mouthless words come whimpering from me as if

An electroshock motel for the being afraid;

A sort of broken-beaked hummingbird

With a chord strung out by the Wind's harsh, bronzed-knuckled fingers.

For the sweated wind, tied and abridged by the forthright stare

That breaks the static line of my motion

Pulls the lips away from me and all I love,

Don't let me sit too long, stirring in my own awake light

Brewing in the silence like a puddle gazing awe-struck

By the thunderous moon -- who is not so great, who steals,

Who thieves, the morning light of the daring dear.

Do not let me be, for you, or for the candescence you provide,

A bucket of longing in your sullen drip-drip-drip.

A sweater raged for the burning amber fuel,

You call to me, leant against the cool, white paste

A casual leniency, but it is not that I know you dare

Until you follow me through a labyrinth of my own making

Like the dream you stalked me in just weeks before,

A hungry murderer trotting through the dead moss

To get to me, I reach for you in the same right, 

Dead as night -- no, I don't: I have no right.

I wish, crave, pine for you; a call to you,

The desert blue, the golden calm of my sweet labour

Dwindling, spindling -- specky little wrist, 

Drawing the words out of glue for you, killing the line of ants

To take over God from you. And I have been left for too long,

Over-heated, or left to dry, and now razor-pimpled,

Like a goose in poverty -- they let me think of you,

They let me spike my drinks with you, of you, and through you--

The deed, they say, has ripened past plucking

And I, in my last right, scratch the last candle-wick,

Dripping molten Godly gas - the bitter stake you,

Twist it into myself, the last one burning in a field of the night.