Inexplicable

Lovesong, they sing,

The black cuckoo drinking you,

A wordsmith with his fingers

Playing fiddle with his one chord,

Drawing out the mammoth high

Of being so goddamn loneahlie. 

The breeches break beneath the

Bombardment, en mourant,

je tu posseéde, it sings, it sings. 

Like all else in the making, dawning dread, 

It unravels with the orgasm of widows

Crying black funeral, they continue the

Merriment with their war-cry of peace.

I could say the same for nothing damned else,

I furrow into your name, whispered atonements

And dread. I create it and own it, until by dying,

I am but a electric shaken-up girl,

Limbs bound by my own helpless frenzy.