It's a sadness we wear like fake snakes on our shoulders
To see the heart in another body and to know it well
To hold the knowledge of carnal transaction
To feel the shelter of innocence and the triumph of senescence
It's a joy to be the sensation on another's flesh
Or to sink slow into the ink of desperate dream
Or to burn the literature we find
In the solemn waste
And then turn our ambitions to desiccated demons
With our vessels of milk
Warm and thick, potent
With eager vitality
