THE PURSUIT OF LOVE

We chase down wet suburban streets in dreams,
or grimy corridors. A noise of trains
we'll never catch. And yet we run. It seems
the floors are slippery. Outside it rains.

That's why the streets are wet A local bus
splashes as it goes past. We hurt our knee
jumping aboard. The sign confuses us
and we can't read in dreams. Annoyingly

We left our bags behind. One sandal too.
We know that these events are memories
Shattered, glued randomly and out of true.
And that's how love is. We can never please

Her, since She's made of fragments that we chase
relentless, damp, and cannot read Her face.

Aubrey Beardsley

Corrupted embryos with knowing eyes
carnival masked - their little pouts are wet,
anticipating how a thumb applies
exquisite pain to nipples. Not quite yet.

Bare-breasted woman raddled, on the town
again. Her hair's a mess. Her chin's like will
embodied, though the flounces of her gown
were cleaner yesterday. He drew until

he coughed himself to death, and burned with rage
that other people got to fuck all night.
Anger and lust rampant on every page
that he engraved. They're there in black and white.

Deep black you want to chew, velvet and lush.
White virgin perverts just about to blush.