Wednesday, March 3, 2010

I Can't Tell You

Brandon L. Sichling

Love is real, but it doesn’t exist.
It’s “there” because there is always
Where we fruitlessly seek.
Love is not here. Humanity declined
The honor of its presence.

My body exists, but it isn’t real.
It’s measurable, at 11.814286 stone,
A few colors, blue and hazel being the two
That matter, but mostly a tolerable shade of
Pasty, constituent clay.

My thoughts are broken, small things.
Occasionally I dream a few nights straight.
I dream and the dreams scare me
To Death & Equal Realities.

Love is real, but it can’t exist.
Existences start by screaming:
Babies, combustion engines, tea.
Love is only real in quiet places
With heartbeats echoing.

Existence, a tiresome long gestation
Love tries to punch through.
It’s trying so damn hard
I see it when I turn out the light.
I can tell you because it’s not mine.

I’ve seen gas burning in night skies.
I’ve looked into your iris.
Gas and fire: formless, but voluminous.
I guess the severity of your headaches.
Frustration is summons, declined.

Love doesn’t exist, but I know where it is.
I can hazard some measurements like recipes:
1 scream = x decibels
1 flare in your iris = x BTUs
1 orgasm is Love tearing into this world.

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