Life in Death

Telré 3/4/97

Fist inside me grasps the pebble, not wanting to let go.
Forbidden, thrice in kind, the release of the animal in the depths of the mind,
Cravings and hot fantasies portrayed in the feast,
The woman who enfolds me, the savage tired beast.
The mind, how it boggles, the mouth, how it moans,
The hands now they tremble, the silence still drones.
The colorful wasteland is fashionably dead,
I look out these eyes like a window in my head.

The Fist that's inside me the pebble released in pain.
Knowing is the passion, the release of my desire in this prison of fashion.
My eyes sadly knowing, the world not my own,
Find myself longing for a place I call home.
Familiar, yet not, this holding cell for my tears,
A small reluctant anchor for my afterlife years.
I stretch forth a hand which always returns empty,
A blast of relief for my fear of the plenty.

In human desire this body is stagnant and fixed...
Unrelieving veil, a haze overlies this corpse so frighteningly pale,
So tired of the fantasies and tired of the pain,
In the grips of a passion so difficult to tame.
Should I release my soul to the maddening Sea?
Should I fight ever harder to remain the real me?
Should I scream at my body when it's wracked with such pain?
Should I give up all the hope that I'd ever see her again?