I have always wanted to write this letter to you. A letter from the mariner— from the silent sea and of the airy birds. This letter is words of colours, of radiant rainbow, of paperbacks and regrets.
Last night, you made me dream; of flowers, of hummingbirds that sang galleries. I was afraid to see you dying. Dying of thirst and multipled coloured waters. Waters that stood watching us from above.
Words are short and scanty— spread on sheets: across boundaries of hips and valleys of beauty.
Can I describe you? Wouldn’t I fail to write you an essay of marigold, blondes and pictures of nature? A loaf of death is better than a love screwed!
Do you love me— did you leave me to die when my heart wanted to chemicalised yours? At noon the sun was right… she was bright and graceful; like diamonds and aquifers, she was the watchman’s dream…
Have I no shame when I can tell you I am madly in love with a tree of browned leaves? Have I no remorse when I steal your pictures and fill them under my pillows at bed-night?—
I had a dream you would die before I finish this confession… a confiscated confession of sunflowers and operas.
Sunlights are abnormal song-birds; clapping a foot to the tunes of hi-life. Tunes of tubes in wrinkled turbines. Stay with me in death traps: will your eyebrows sink to save my dried lips?
These are the lessons from home. Sometimes of blue margins…
Shine if the star fails to dance. Dance if the birds sing at night. Dream when earthquakes rap…but above tomorrow,
I will sing of death after our love has wrinkled together in times…
The Worried Bird.
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