The Sentimentalist

whose presence I avoided and abhorred,
swearing destruction my only valuable
valid recourse, has no canticle to intone
from his unreachable and sallow throat.

Do I moan, as well as sigh? I despair
of these fires that are flower; of flowers
born as stars of indeterminate twilight;
of prisons best believed to be a pivot

upon paradigm of plasticity cum womb.
Here the circus camps; here the blackbirds
choir; here the sentimentalist posits
matters grey and moired. Oh, to slit

those eyes with serendipity never sanguine;
to devour self-congratulatory refinement
and shit out an ocean moon. Oh, to strike
as lightning from a purity of blue.