An Enquiry Into Madness

I carved her face with an artist's knife
But artist's don't carry knives!, exclaimed the writer
Well I do but I'm not an artist; yet.
O permit me digressions
Or not.

I loved her face
Even more than her sex!
Astonished and flummoxed
I checked my tools
Things were fine
I pictured her breasts,
But I remembered her face
This delighted me.

With her
I only wanted her face
What a lovely one it was
It was?
It is.
I still have the face carved
And pasted on my damp ceiling
Damp with sweat and chemicals
Why, of course, to preserve it!

So I carved her face
And buried her body
So I carved her face
As it was
And mine it was!
I now wear her face
And move among crowds.

Lucky bastard they call me.
And how I'm glad!
To forever have that face.

Loss

Some beginnings have no endings
While some seem forever to end.
My love for you oscillates between the two
My love, if I can call it mine
Seems as alien to me as it does to you.
I have loved you with all that I am
And with all that I perhaps may never be,
But with the tremblings of time, my love
I have ceased to exist,
And so have you, for me.