On the tip of my tongue
Another attempt at love
Has left me far away
Away from her
And away from myself
The melancholy of failure
Lies like an aftertaste . . .
Just beyond the reaches
Of my taste buds and tongue
The smell of peaches
Bursting open in the sun
The surge and scent so strong
Beginning as a ripple
The milk and honey song
Springing from her nipple
The hope and then the loss
Ideal then reality
Love is like a cross
To carry for eternity
On that crucifix is offered
The false water of life
For that which is proffered
Is like a liquid knife
Which rather than quenching
The thirst of the dying person
Only succeeds in wrenching
Moisture from the mouth and worsen
The craving . . . Oh well, what the fuck!
Next time it will be better . . .
‘She’s funny
Wants my money
Calls me honey
Her name is . . .’ – the rhyme, its on the tip of my tongue, and
She laughs when I sing that song to her with a sparkle in my eye . . .
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