My appetite flaunts and my hair tangles, my bare feet flip my final fantasy,
and lolling, with desperate icy doors down into my throat, god couldn't prevent
this running beast from heaven if heaven didn't exist,

existing in sharp cold moulds, biting delicious, I don't meet anyone, I have not known,
but I bruise my eyes on window panes looking for that magic eye
to take me home. The beauty has to bolt and it has to break my lungs

so to reach for a kiss, it has to make me whole. I talk sporadic, catatonic,
but never platonic so don't make me atonic, my nerve is a library, marching,
blowing raspberries, and staggering like a beak spearing from a thousand feet,

I want to make you cry, standing as the breath on your neck watching a glacier,
tasting, maybe saying you shouldn't but not that you couldn't. I want 
to plait our ribs when we meet, with the rose feathers of a nightingale's

violent marriage and string whispers together like they are cathedral's tears.
It hurts my heart should I not find anyone here.
I was not born to be a mute and, so, I look for the boy in the tree

shouting his creed of beauty.

                                                                                
                                               "You are my master. I am on an atom respiring at the corner of your lips
                                                 or expiring. I want to touch serenity with a finger wet with tears.'
                                                Andre Breton - Nadja