Love, it is love, once again love.
Sorry I didn't mean... if you're busy
I was just saying how frustrating it is
to read. The moon blazes fire, burns
in yearning majesty of love's lost return:
in turning, burns, the returning still.

She cuts the conversation. Lights a cigarette
with Vesta, The phosphor somehow suits
her nature. Everything she says
is fashionable beyond the sake of comfort
and nowhere, to her disappointment, can be found
a single reference in the bible, to a single shit.

Sorry I didn't mean... I was just saying
its frustrating if you're busy, to read;
just saying. And why, why hang your hat 
upon reflection, the burning face returning 
of what we thought was loved and lost.
Once again love, love, it is love.

Does what we see in the mirror shit?
Shit, shit, shit, there I said it.
You said I wouldn't.
Said I couldn't.
Shit, shit, shit, there it is again,
wearing a crucifix, with crossed fingers.
You said I shouldn't.
Again.

Again we apologise, again and again:
for those excursions of understanding
again.

I'm sorry, but it is a serious point
made smooth:
why make love when it mostly shit
and madness;
in glaring reflection of a shitless future.

Sorry I didn't mean... if you're busy
I was just saying how frustrating it is
to read. Again. I didn't mean sorry...
how frustrating if you're busy. I say
I was just reading again, I say sorry
again, again, sorry again.

Again, I didn't mean sorry: again.