By the Egyptian Gate,
  I wait in my penance vest.
 I've never been so lost before,
 so I-can't-help-myself-possessed.
I want to be torn through
the material of your flesh.

Your husband lies unconscious
on Samuda's precipice -
I drink in the dead night air
and your astringent kiss.

She's slovenly lovely,
he's a moth over opium.
So long time stone cold sober,
now marked down for delirium.
Her perfume draws his blood out
and back, back to this asylum slum.

One man, one woman,
walk around Newington Green;
the worst case of resemblance
in N16.

I hate having to desire you,
hate feeling this again.
I hate having to desire you,
in common with other men.

My fellow creature-gods look out
to be mutually blessed.
This therapeutic age leaves them cold,
so fashionably distressed.
But I just want to be torn through
the material of your flesh.

"Cheer up, it'll never happen," they said.
"Not every candle burns;
lighting up these lonely nights
in this century of germs.
So ... many ... happy ... r-r-returns."

"Cheer up it'll never happen," they said.
"We're here on your behalf."
"It already has," I said.
They evaporate and laugh.

I hate having to desire you,
hate feeling this again.
I hate having to desire you,
in common with other men.

The best in life,
it's nothing special,
remember who said it.
Our lives are running,
oh, my little death.
This is forever,
the final edit.