Для Rave. (I am better at kitchen prose than gutter rhymes, but I tried to dive into them)
I can not hide in your heart
like a moth
learning child’s hide-and-seek art
so peacefully floating
on the organ’s slimy skin,
rowing and boating
and serve as an alive pin,
wing-tickling your fickle heart
until you squeeze a smile
with motion tearing me apart.
as I’m seeking for a defile.
Lying eagle-spread
crucified on this red muscle
for the days I bled
before I became just rustle,
prostrated and listening to
its beat, tentatively,
like moths do.
I can not nibble on your heart
like a caterpillar
with my tongue sharpened as a dart
biting a leaf after leaf
a whole battalion of us
when hunger is a thief
and our insect’s tears are puss,
connoisseur of sauces and spices
you are, then you should taste
like the biggest sack of prices.
Of vices. All glittering. And laced.
But if you’re poisoned I’ll choke
with the lump of your flesh
in my body but in your yoke
and my graveyard will be my creche
naturally swinging to
your windy breath
like caterpillars do.
I can not I can not
with my jealousy, “nevermore’s!” and slouch
I can not seek for your love as for a crouch
Can I?
…with my chronic inner golden crack
out of the blue and into the black.