Tantamount to lush China's weeping willows
And that miserable place whence you came's
Dead-blue victory violets-Augsburg, Germania-
I do fraudulence extraordinary well; and in and of itself,
It is the now's cardinal sin to love, the now's sad blum.
She, my fraudulence substantiated, is my ego.
She is always with me, and with her I belong
To the other most adept ones,
Those who have had the displeasure in meeting this woman.
I do, I most certainly do.
Therefore, I may say I know not a single man
Within my life's actualities, experiences,
And utmost hostilities of the same concern.
Except only one: my six missing bodily pieces,
Of the heavenly variety,
In which I wait for their design of another warrior to lust.
O the vicious oppositions
One must have to consider it such!
Acrimony, acrimony, acrimony.
It is acrimony to be alone with your Roman study,
Your glossed statue of gaudy alabaster in Roman cruelty.
Stark mann, you are, hidden
Beneath the titan-white under perpetual construction and construction.
To everyone soliciting his creation,
Halt, halt, halt.
Instead come look. Sirs and sirs,
Watch me break the abacuses that surround him
And swallow their marble balls of black and green,
Serpentine stone, wholly and whole.
Sirs and sirs, come look.
Watch me open the Prussian-blue sky
Before the artisan gods are done making him
And erupt it into the bright furnace
That tore open the Book of Daniel.
Come look, sirs and sirs.
Stark mann, I will tangle the iron wires
Of your Newton's cradle, the Newton's cradle
That sets our love apart,
Until it can never read of lucky divinations anymore.
Stark mann, I used to love the idea of you like oxygen,
Like a broken piece of art,
Incessantly waiting for you and your genesis
To bash me about with a good bashing
For destroying your silly little thing
Now scattered across our yellow modeling room
Where we lobby the artisan gods, lobby the sirs and sirs.
Specks of sunlight fly around the pillowed plumes,
And again I am ever-gloomed
In this Greco-Roman afternoon,
Still waiting for the alabaster of you, stark mann,
To melt away from them and bash me up about,
Just like I said for you to do.
I give in, I give in, I give in.
In many ways, I give in.
I know they made your interim body and flesh,
Of the heavenly variety,
As they once did me,
Of the ordinary variety.
I am common, calling upon them to complete you.
I have blew the angel trumpets for it,
And the pink cherubim pull my hair, Cupid my leg.
We are both divine creations,
Though one of us is not like the other,
And yet we are still meant to seek one another,
But you never will.
The fraudulence I carry is my will to love your conceptualization
Despite relishing in its fated maiming of myself and my body,
And yours is the killer's code, loving me in pretend
Like a colorless deity.
Of the common variety, of the heavenly variety.
Tell me, stark mann, even if we were truly two things
Mended from the same alabaster,
Is there anything left for us?
Is there anything left for us in the next millennia,
Or do I have to find another mold in the black grief?
Were you not supposed to come out of it
And teach me your lessons, sir?
Why is it that when we discuss what was written for us
You must tell me about what you shared
With your past women and boys,
Suggesting they were more real than us,
Then flicker the torch light as you deny your intentions of it?
Why must you tell me about Anna and Livia again?
I cry for it.
Tell me, stark mann, is there anything left for us?
Come sir, I will write another hymn for us,
Another vesper!
Do not talk to me about them, about her and him or him and her,
Orange with lies.
Stark mann, cease your adulterer tales,
And stop confessing like an Achillean literator.
You are as sheer as evaporated lace, a traitor to all-
But do you not know they had not made you one of those?
Instead you are a legendary hero of many confessions.
Confessions, confessions, confessions.
Do not tell me what it is you want to say!
It is as if you write letters to her, clandestine reminders of
How you kept her, pleasured her, felt her
Like an undying lionheart protector.
So, so many confessions.
Stark mann, demigod under the avenger of unrequited love,
I would like to complete our hymn, our vesper
As they had completed you.
Maybe this time I can fix the abacuses and cradles I destroyed,
And maybe that will solidify your melted alabaster,
And in turn make you a better hero,
One who is certain to find me as it had always said
In our decree, not her or him or him or her.
No? Perhaps I can just give in to the falsehood so
War is over between us: the loves of the gods.
