The World of Dying Love

THE WORLD OF DYING LOVE

The long finger of blackness is holding its head for us. Dingy bue is its shade, comatose in movement, hazarding a slow swiftness, it inches toward us.

Relief comes fitfully. The dragon alone, an upstart crowned with drunken spending, has horse colours as ribbons with his eyes. It cradles a breast of trembling bone.

Misercorde, Misercorde. I dreamt I saw skeletal slackness dangling; the poverty of touch is a casket with love in rumbling sockets. Craziness is the passion of the engulfed, dribbling pleasantly.

Presentations extended beyond and into themselves. Slackness schemes with invalid awareness in a brothel of hope.

Part II