So Google won’t allow me to
unless their powers to
are more far powerful than I know.
But imagine the case,
and imagine it now: for love, real love,
the love I’ve never experienced –
not my love for others
but their love for me –
I would gladly, freely, sincerely and frankly
destroy all my art, all my writing, all my photography.
If the condition of being loved
is to regain all our anonymities,
then condition I accept
in exchange for promised land.
[Love isn’t blind, by the way:
not half as much
as you may
My love also recognises the level of pain
I suffer daily, all the time, in the
absence of soulmate’s rhyme.
I just want to be happy
with a woman who shares my joy:
the being and seeing and fucking and doing grand,
where thinking over idiocy
no longer rules me sad.]
And so I’d prefer to fly with you, my dear,
another goddamn single word.