but dove

long life lines in arabesque,
that intertwine and seethe of lust;
a glass of wine upon this desk,
that smells of sweat, of blood, of must.

another cry for help is heard,
but, oh, how placid is this bed;
ignored like filthy, stray blackbird,
do not let it get to your head.

so sing your song, that cheerful tune,
while neighbours die to smoke and flame;
they still gave you the sun, the moon,
and then themselves, they left to blame.

and court!
forget not that they court!
and promised all of life's good will,
with ice and frost they bravely fought,
but fire, comes he now to kill.

another cry for help is seen,
but, damn, these prawns, they taste so good;
ignored like fat, like bone, like lean,
drink that milk like only you could.

but love!
how could you blind such love?
the bitter taste of charcoal becks,
and marred that blackbird was a dove,
now slaughtered, cut above it's neck.

oh, mistake, so i have been told,
it's slaughter not, but sacrifice;
let body remain safe and whole,
the bill? you should not pay this price.

so let the neighbours take it on,
their tab is infinite like stars;
your jacket, sir, do take and don,
and leave in one of your fast cars.

but hope!
this hope, they gave, you too!
a gift so sordid while you part,
that dove died not from blood and dew,
but for you broke its fragile heart.