myshkin

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“China-faced, blue killing,

The desert condensed,

Heart as heat, still beating.

Favour, as in favours,

lulled quiet by a storm,

thunderous in her crying,

silent with her love.

Night has neared,

baked moon tilting,

a lavender past creeps on twos,

never there, always missing.

Iseult has peaked,

White mounds and carmine crests,

Her vice is a livid thing,

wretched and blue,

a porcelain knife.”

a poem of mine about me.

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