Title
 

Author
 

Poem 1

Author 1

Poem 2

Author 2

Poem 3

Author 3

Poem 4

Author 4

Poem 5

Author 5

Poem 6

Author 6

Poem 7

Author 7

Poem 8

Author 8

Poem 9

Author 9

Poem 10

Author 10

Poem 11

Author 11

Poem 12

Author 12

Poem 13

Author 13

Poem 14

Author 14

Poem 15

Author 15

Poem 16

Author 16

Poem 17

Author 17

Poem 18

Author 18

Poem 19

Author 19

Poem 20

Author 20

Poem 21

Author 21

Poem 22

Author 22

Poem 23

Author 23

Poem 24

Author 24

Poem 25

Author 25

Poem 26

Author 26

Poem 27

Author 27

Poem 28

Author 28

...and so on until Poem 100

...Author 100

Poem 1

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 2

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 3

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 4

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 5

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 6

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 7

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 8

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 9

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 10

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 11

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 12

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 13

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 14

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 15

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 16

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 17

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 18

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 19

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 20

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 21

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 22

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 23

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 24

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 25

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.

Poem 26

Filling the hours with dust,
flowers
cannot grow in dust.

Passion,
passion can.
Like sand-flies, like sand-worms
it copulates and thrives and grows
feeding on leftovers of skin
and leftovers of memories
riding the taste hidden between teeth,
carrying pieces of your tongue
and food leftovers
and muted screams.

I spit in the dust, I cry, bleed,
chew interminable mouthfuls looking for the lost seeds of crocodiles
and flowers.

I regard over my shoulder,
behind me,
the dust overflows from hours into days, weeks... what comes after weeks?...
looming high above me
threatening to topple over, to smother...
“...hi...” I hear a thin voice.

Is it yours?
I don’t know,
but suddenly
dust turns into flowers.

Poem 27

Savory is your skin
as morning’s sea drops on my dry lips
and I feel your veins pulsating
full of love,
full of life.

In the air,
the essence of you,
so unique that words can’t describe
and I feel dizzy.
Your touches,
your conquering eyes’ light,
the warmth of melting sun
you give me as a lifelong vow
conquers me,
and I feel dizzy.
I am besotted with your sensual breath,
the most beautiful song
mixed with kisses the taste of mint and thyme.

Your palms offer me ripe, fizzy, young apple wine
dripping between fingers,
and you feed me again the sweet pulp
to satisfy my hunger,
and I am bewitched
with love.

Without you
loneliness,
wherever I go
I am desperately looking to see you
between passers-by and birds and grass and flowers,
and I step into water puddles to see reflections of you
on the shimmery surface,
but again
I rest alone and alone and alone
and every time when I hear the sound of paces
I look over my shoulder wishing it was you.

Poem 28

You emerge from morning’s shower trailed by whiffs of orange flower,
Leaving tiny, stylish puddles where your toe imparts its cuddles
On the face of blushing marble, turning verse into a garble
As that... goodness!... skimpy towel, shorter than a single vowel
plants a promise in my bowel.

I submit to dreams of passion, both king’s ransom and his ration,
Rummaging through old confessions for those quiescent obsessions
Big in prospect and in number, shaking off the lethal slumber
When a brimming cup of fire rushes through my vessels mire
lusting for your body’s lyre.

You parade your dangling booty like God’s given right and duty
When you innocently shiver, innocently bend and quiver,
Innocently pull your stocking way beyond its mid-thigh docking,
Evidently innocently... innocently?... evidently?...
when I watch you rolling, gently?

From temptation to salvation I will stop at sheer damnation,
Counting sand-grains for one hour then a lifetime’s silo tower
Pulling at that towel’s fringes, testing all your body’s hinges,
Like magician, like musician in crescendo demolition
as we crash, we join, we fission.