LOVE POEM #7

the tyrant of love
hammered our ghost pain
wings,

while the music went blank
all over the room. Caligulas in lipstick
marched through the fireplace,
singing mattress in half
with radioactive feet on their way to
the platform, we kiss,
we're off the room, we're immaculate
beaks
up in the ceiling corners,
tongue sparks
flick from mouth to mouth

we were hammered by charging
breastplates of gold,

soldiers let loose before our veined heavens
went mad with humble energy.

The tyrant of love
went back on his heels like a stained
mechanic, satisfied with this
final
engine.