The Luv'sic' Waste of D Henry Allwein, Part Ii

II. Paralysis U[sic] Shy one, shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight Pensively apart; Linger now with me, thou Beauty, On the sharp archaic shore. Surely 'tis a wastrel's duty And the gods could ask no more. If thou lingerest when I linger, If thou tread'st the stones I tread, Thou wilt stay my spirit's hunger And dispel the dreams I dread. You Touch me: crown me a King David that never lusted for Bathsheba. You Spit me: a gloam streak of magma to fade ‘way into this withering world. You Comfort me: a lone piece of pollution skirting 'round the Hudson River. You Murder me: crown me with your startling thorns, then viddy my Arbor Cruoris. Yet You Know me: the outlier; the castaway; the Monster of Victor. You. Out of those mere flickers ‘leashes Gaia's roiling green; of breath, such softness as spooled in heavens only we can dream. Eclipsing fire by water lyre: siren of yore sans ill intent—The Elixir, the eternal giver of felicity, ambrosia solace, lustrous Pleiades, 777, &c. I implore, hear now my prayer: Do remain that sunny Ark, and give not your essence true to that Scar—hark! Neither unto the White Shark. Call me Ishmael Evermore in this hilted world of horror that knows best only of war: the abysmal yonder, yet— O’er Gehenna prevails: a Genesis U Exist My Paralysis