And here I dreamed I was a soldier, and I marched the streets of Birkenau.
And I recall in spring the perfume that the air would bring to the indolent town where the barkers call the moon down. The carnival was ringing loudly now, and just to lay with you -- there's nothing that I wouldn't do, save lay my rifle down.
And try one, and try two -- guess it always comes down to "All right, it's okay, guess it's better to turn this way."
And I am nothing of a builder, but here I dreamed I was an architect.
And I built this balustrade to keep you home, to keep you safe from the outside world.
But the angles and the corners (even though my work is unparalleled) . . . they never seemed to meet. This structure fell about our feet and we were free to go.
And here in Spain I am a Spaniard: I will be buried with my marionettes.
Countess and courtesan have fallen 'neath my tender hand when their husbands were not around.
But you, my soiled teenage girlfriend (or are you furrowed like a lioness?)
And we are vegabonds; we travel without seat belts on.
We live this close to death.
But I won, so you lose.
 dyejob · Mon Mar 31, 2008 @ 09:30pm · 0 Comments |
