If I have ever loved you,
It is because I need to,
Because I desperately, desperately need to
Murder this internal and cosmic pain
That rattled my entrails, and fondled my funny brain;
Because your rosy heart is scrambled,
Mangled, and entangled,
Into a garden of sunny flamingos,
Into a corner of Asphodel Meadows--
And rescued me from my limbo--
In a fashion so incredibly, incredibly sublime!
Therefore, I made you my hostage,
My dazing and gazing hostage
Of a delectable and supple age--
Like in Stockholm, K.C., and Vienna,
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
I made you a princess in my princedom of trauma,
In my bad taste and mad haste for trite and worn-out drama--
You are the little star--in my humble theatrical,
You are the starry angel, starry and classical!
Immortal like the sunshine, eternal like the boreal night,
And celestial like a lascivious bite--
And you bit deep into my wounded pride,
And cured me of my sickness a thousand times;
While I kissed you like Icarus kissed the sky,
With my lips eclipsed however your life and light:
Alas! I killed you--my brilliant, brilliant bride,
As you healed me, and thrilled me with a true romantic crime.
Alas! My bitter and lonely self lingers obediently
In the dusty shadow of an antique dream that dies day after day--
Softly, plainly, insanely, and metaphysically,
Day after day after day--