On the happy occasion of your birthday
the music in my pious player
tells me that I
must pay my love for you
in love-words that part their
price at your wall;
It is appropriate that people in love
that are beautiful enough to endure the groin of contact.
my words are septic with longing.
So filled with the sore and sausage of my internals
(plump and gruesomely young)
that they roll like biased marbles
towards my oesophagus
But maybe with words we can finally have a morning
And not this backward counting
Act by act, plight by plight,
Slow like the movement of thighs.
With words we can buy new sight
To get by in our atrophy of living
And share the vision of a foetus in its binding calm.
So I try for words as one tries for the only thing there is in the midst of this
And this is my wordy tribute to you.