Morse

Just after the sun flushed
through the purple
throath of night
we promised our forevers,
our starving, munching
multiplicity
to the uncaring swans

They answered secretly
dark-eyed and bent
sniffing the cloudy sky
with their fleshy yellow beaks
gallantly naked
in white and carmine feathers

We liked that
and we took it
because we were
morbidly human

But the fire was white,
Prometheus

We made a toy of each other
willfully together
yielding to the flesh

Because man is resignation,
Schopenhauer

Playing and taking
is conquest
but we missed something/
our only mistake
was forgetting Death

Buried beneath
the devil’s dandruff
we cared not be seen
in our heroic attempts
of making something
that resembled love
with only feathers
and forevers

But teeths are smiles,
Kerouac

Dots and lines can be scratches,
Morse

and really

What is privacy
in a world of darkness/
what kind of feat
could hope to become
a prowess
in a game without light?