AnnaInAdottedDress

- There is soul and there is melody which are two different things; there is trouble in March and the dead end you knew nothing of before. There was the drone of the spaceship, but in truth the universe is silent and I took the eye and ear drugs, which resulted in fever and loud throwing up in the early mornings, so I shot the idols and knelt   with death metal in the car; with long darkness in my mind and a hard puzzle in my hair, but in truth there weren't enough priest machines to keep me alive as I stumbled down the stairs; he walks past me and I strain to hide that I'm afraid. -

oh god I'm awake again after midnight will I ever learn it's no use to hide inside beams or double floors to study dreams of his father handing me tequila shots in beer glasses I must be out of my mind but window panes have crosses like corridors have corner trouble and my music is green like forests even if I bow my head and stare at the keys for hours and she rends my heart as her voice cracks and I sew together all the good words I can think of but it's not enough and Aaron wants me to be a greater heart than I can bear to have aside from images of knights and dirt or horsebacks for the outdoor torch whores and

- I plunge into the forwardness of wine at dawn in a boat, of all my cups and whatnot, of America newly opening before me. The starships' graceful mocking draw tears out of my eyes again and silent worship, tonight. And I can't escape my own head; there's a net around my thoughts as he says, "it's a grand lecture – if it were true, it would kill masses of books". And I cry for Anna's devastated flowerbeds. And I gather all your horses in the plantation of the morning king. This enchantment isn't really something else. So gladly brace your young love, run with me. -

- Stranger see this city seashell raises high its walls, hides you in its warm mother of pearl flesh folds, ignites in you a song that carves another sky and washes out the brothertone; the now emerging foxhole sound I recognise you by. Was it the forest you came out of then that taught you to be a poet; was it the incense in the outer house or Cohen's wine – I don't remember anything but colorlines, E flat major seven for your boatman rhymes, the smoky air of yellow fall, but we won't know the cold arrived, or winter's blame; the little flower stays alive, safely placed between your names. -

- A trail of red leaves, the yellow light standing with the mist in the street; I also wondered at the grass beside the old train, or maybe at your knees, which it probably would just be able to reach. There was a sound as if from a telegraph inside my chest, so I said aloud: "I always knew this would happen: I can't stop myself from calling you." I sat in the coffee shop, where the young lovesick waitress was waiting for a better life; the white columns made the docks look like art and she said: "Be alert! That girl in which your eyes delight, she's on her way to make an uproar in your heart." -

- All the books you gave me reel around my room at night because I have no safe place to put them, because they are like you.   Among and beside the waiting secret; despite the years of ironing useless records into the air above are you not still the radiator in my elsewhere, lifting up your head, the best, the loveliest and I want to be that true to you, that awakening. -

- Darling: take your shoes to the train station and wait for the wakeup-call to come: it comes in vain and so does every chessboard coloured day from now on spent alone. I remember our talks with the firemen: you only wanted to ask questions about ice cream or village gossip and I loved you for your childlike boldness and I loved you for   summer in your hair. I take my dotted bycicle, determined to hide behind a quick embrace, a trivial laugh, to say a meaningless goodbye – strange enough, when I wake up I have railroad bruises on my arms. -

- North spreads out: your wise fleshwounds. Your white noise. My naked doe at the brook. You have no soul, you have a throbbing choice and my lover is radiant; when he drives the headlights live. Find the heart before the cause. I don't care about all the other gods. All that matters is your voice. -