Merry, you may be.
For I am the flesh in your tounge.
Create to yourself, images of these
glass-eyed figures,
and expose to me, your skin –
whorish as ever.
They speak to me, your pores, your veins,
in a rush of melancholy.
In a stream of misantrophy.
Remove the carpet, so I may be
united with the shades of these.
Blind my eyes,
still I will see – presence, visuality.
I grant you my pale hands,
still I will feel – shape, contoures.
Please leave.
In me you wont find any pity,
as the dog that howls for the light in my eyes –
the stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me.
So, please leave.
In here you won