Love; noun/adjective :

Listen to this word, and forget for a moment how fucking ridiculous it is.

Listen to this word, how they speak it, how they spit it,

And still they tremble where they lie.

They tremble, but they don’t know why.

Love, in your throat,

Like an egg rolling down your tongue, clipped by a bit lip.

Love…

A hesitation, and no one knows the last part, no one dares…

And that word of eagerness, when violence is done and the world doesn’t give a shit?

What will we call that?

That is not our word.

Ours is a frightful thing, and bright.

Ours is liquid and sharp, hidden truth in brazen lies,

Lonely dots in shining eyes.

Life wearing Death’s robes

Death robed in Life’s.

Listen, to this word, which is a confession.

Listen. This is happening now.

You’ve broken through the ice, the lake is full of oil

And you’re drowning.

And sure we’re crass,

But we’ve come to the heart of the matter.

This love, this heavy love,

These hands and the great plains of the dead.

Speak the word, and become a lover,

And a lover is but a barren thing,

And two lovers are but two barren things.

In each other’s arms, still, they turn away.

As the coach pulled out of Copenhagen

Human thing of laughing hollows, conspiracy and murder.

Your flesh colludes and separates, holds partisan to the air.

You killed that child who was a child of moments and no killer.

You killed that man who would have turned

And walked the other way.

You lay waste to that path.

And in place of spotless maybes and that silken evermore,

You leave the ravaged past to be a corpse and ring of heartache,

You forge the timid future that waits in anguish for your rape.

And in those cobbled streets you build, you leave both friends and enemies.

They freeze where you left them, in the futility of their conflict.

And we call out still for riot and we run in all directions.

We call out for fire and stampede and the sacrament of tear gas,

The transubstantiation that turns this artificial irritant

To the tears of all our honoured dead, the children who we were.

The parents that we will not be, the freedom that mocks us.