je suis flaneuse

i used to scoff at poems like this. now that i see you tragically in every line, my skin crawls and my instestines squirm. the pathetic tension of the vocal chords and dull pain of the temples. someone knows or has known, or is speaking so quietly, and in terms so vague that i will drag them in beaten and bruised in a bodybag and claim them as those that have been unstrung and thieved from the sinews of my soul, stripped from the empty, sterile hallways of my memory. i will swear at the alter that this poet is screaming understanding into my ears so desperately and with such a psychotic smile of longing to be understood as i have just now, just this very thousandth of a second, that he has turned in his grave and now returns to rest undisturbed for the next thousand years until one more tongue rolls the verbs with the spark of the eye and the crystalline freezing of space and matter on the same word, the same thought which enlightened me. which left me so dumbstruck, which smarted about my ears and stung like frostbite, and which weighted your truth right to the bottom with a soft final thud, where it sits stubbornly inside me and is as real as my hands. To be granted that same rest, as my poet, I'd give a lifetime. while I wait, I'll follow your body to the ends of he earth, as that is all it deserves. can you ever even imagine, have you ever known a body which leaves that poverty in your bones? have you?

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My friend, thou art good and cautious and wise; nay, thou art perfect -- and I, too, speak with thee wisely and cautiously. And yet I am mad. But I mask my madness. I would be mad alone. My friend, thou art not my friend, but how shall I make thee understand? My path is not thy path, yet together we walk, hand in hand.

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anyway, i'm looking for a lou andreas-salome. or a maud gonne? even a goddamn nancy will be fine. please, no anna gordy's.