The epistle that I wrote
Now accumulating in this fragile yearning factory
Full of null jouissance, only Felo-de-se hunch
I skedaddle, but deviate
You saunter, but come across my wry visage.
Sometime around monotonous evening
I looked at you through the vague reflection of a greasy window
And you looked back with equally cordial eyes.
I'm holding what I have to give; it still lies there smoldering.
Anaerobically, exist, but as you become transient,
I frantically grasp in the void.
Eugenics are now going to the Borstal
From this fragile yearning factory.
Maybe after this churning life,
I'll lay down and count my funeral congregation
But for now, blood drops from my wound like midnight tears
and my heart passing through this desolating June,
Still, there's no recipient.
Avalanches of guilt, thawing from this fragile yearning factory.
I'll become an altruist to keep you warm during the civil war
But before you serenade me to dissipate
I want to embrace you one last time
Maybe then I can be radical and free
But for now, I'll rest my soul in this fragile yearning factory.
