Monday, October 11, 2010

The Shadow of my Desire

The Shadow of my Desire

Bladed fan, painful stuffing, where are the night ladders recalling jungle bypaths on which we walked with sand-clocks remembering noonday lips and stares, labyrinths of smoked stars?  I feel them rising again like Lazarus, hallucinations milking my desire.  Bladed fan, painful stuffing, today is the funeral of the cruelest metaphor.

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