I write best when I use a fountain pen For then I can best map the rivers of blue (better than black). The eyebrows of ink arching the i's Stroking the t's. As the vein-blue capillaries sink
You chose me with your eyes. You tell me, everyone tells That love is blind. Such lies make maggots of our souls. My face, dear victim, was your only mercenary goal.
How can you be called mellow when all around you are burning? In auburn flame the light gutters and half-lit hues of chestnut give birth, To creeping, wombed darknesses of night.