Beneath a pale moon-spit sky

Exclamations of those thrown overboard? How!

Let's leave 'em to the sharks. Larks?

Singing, the singing of birds on the bough?

I drother take a turn on the stone of sparks.

Without her, I live and thrive and drive,
Passionless, through the desert of my soul,

Which, arid and without wind, I traverse

Amid a storm of windy thoughts of better climes.

Has it been so much, or too much, to clip

Wings whose dual ambition: to Soar!

Must needs recede and, dying, dip?

Alas, the most immaculate whore.

All else besides, I long for that stir,

That stir of living blood within my heart.

Perhaps it's late, as I've died too far;

I won't forget her: my precious tart.

Remember the dancing gold of her hair?

The glittering, piercing eyes?

The all-too-rare touch of her fair

Skin amid the stifled sighs?

After your hops and skips that tantalized;

Your jeans that were torn so perfectly:

Became a spell that mesmerized

And beyond doubt and death tormented me.

How often must I recall your jumps? Your sex

Brought me to another level of low that, a hex?

Must have been the sign of times before which

I haven't seen such a thing, 'specially not such a bitch.

Your uterus flew udderly without care

For my feelings, which, nonetheless, suffered despair.

How a thing such as thou canst not be aware

Of all of our human defaults and silly things, I can't dare (to say).