Blistered Text And Bleeding Pens - Thought Industry

In life I’m skin stretched to form my body.

With life

We can hope to grow old alone.

In life all is well.

Strapped empty to a placid dream.

In the fields is where

I belong.

Blistered text and bleeding pens.

In life we are one.

Extensions of each other.

With life

We can find that death is on the outside, in life all

is Well, left dancing a laughing tree.

In the hills is where I Belong.

Blistered text and bleeding pens.

Venice please will you hide my face and change my Eyes.

Friends aren’t friends.

They look to themselves.

Their advice is wrong.

Selfish.

Blatant.

On the Bridge

of Sighs a piece of bleeding art.

Mold me still with

plaster

Joints and a pompous grin.

I shall die within my song.

Your life for my life.

Your life for my life.

Your life for my life.

Your life for my life.

The Rialto.

Buy here, sell there.

I see a face.

Carletta.

The Rialto.

Thieves and lovers, mimes and jugglers,

Read me poems from Venetia.

Of tired men with hearts

Of gold.

Of the whore without a neck.

So the palace

Guards could not take her head.

Dead.

My.

Head.

In pools we swirl beyond the point of transition.

All

Must try.

All must fail.

The Renaissance Ants crawl deep in her mouth,

Yea.

Across her breasts and within her thighs.

Christ

has

Known these thighs before.

The Ants of Enlightenment

Have her moaning to their cause.

She chews on the

Ants still trapped in her teeth.

Christ has known this

Mouth before.

At the Grand Canal Carletta cries.

The gondolier

Says, «Wipe your face, whore».

I just laugh, now

looking

Down.

The gondola’s a paper swan.

Pulp.

On the mezzanine I watch the old man scream.

Like

Cats ripping doves apart wing by wing.

Violins,

Tangerines, and one glass eye.

I love Carletta and with

That I sigh.

Who wins?

Who wins you?

Forgive?

Forgive.

I could

Not choose;

and both poets lose.

We lose.