If I could truly move mountains
and ensnare women and ravens alike
with nothing but the delicate dance of my tongue;
and fly closer and closer to the sun
without burning my golden angel wings
and falling to the vast deathbed of mankind;
if I was the unbroken knight of old tales
returned from the beast’s lair and content in love;
do you truly believe that I would be lying here,
smoking and drinking upon an unmade bed,
discussing Kerouac and loneliness
as your warm breath upon my neck
awakens new dreams of casual obscenity?
Confession
This is harrowing. The writer seems deeply cynical and yet refers to having angel wings, as though this is the one piece of him which is untouched by disillusion. His one chance at happiness. I wish I could figure out what women and ravens have in common though?