Quercicle chanson

Why do we do the things we do, Kate?
Tortured by blessings I despise them.
Take comfort in discomfort.
Love agitates me. Mercies wavering,
belly quavering, they're writing songs, not for me.
Not good enough, my fat crumpled mirror cunningly reports.
Mumbling, retorts: attached to detachment.
Imagine getting out of Highgate, New Brighton...
Imagine how delight feels.
Delicious the fetishist squeals,
wheeling for a porter
she took a line and piqued, “go easy on me.”
Would you report her?

These thoughts imbedded. In bed, I'd
think to write a love poem.
Not yet, too soon, this aft, or noon,
think to write
luck. Be a lady. Too, night.
Frozen ground, pecking bird
Do you ever query amour?
I am a more ashen-- am, or
pulsing, it trembles.
My heart resembles
a furnace.
Hey furnish this compliant act with repentant tact.
Yawn. Yacht! Ben, there! Done that?

Collision, retraction. The cross I bear.
The tension ever. There.
Why do we do the things we do, Kate?
The things we don't do? Hate
these systems of our selves,
wash with zeal til sheen the shelves
we rest on. Where
are you and why? Where do you know am I?

You want a love poem? Here's a love poem:
What is suitable for a love poem? A comet turns,
and toward you, the grasses, blue, yearn
thundering their secret grass transactions.
Gasp. Where did I go wrong?
Wasn't that nice? Would this will suffice
for a sentimental song
ere long?

Why do I falter? She took a line and piqued,
“Too pampered, that one.”
Availed by veiled assail abstractions.
What things are laden by traction,
unease? My love! What star, what species
Dried up seas, dusty sneeze. Achoo. Bless,
you a million microscopes could not detect
the slender slivered sleeves of faith, and yet
I die, I die with my little eye, something crumpled.
Perfection, failing, failure falls, what avails?
Do you dream those summer nights, as I?

Walls. All ways I take to task.
Walls at rest abreast a ground.
Walls to smart to ask. Walls too sore to sound.