 |
| There are no virgins in this world |
| Where life dies |
| And death begins |
| Love expands |
| To no end |
| Night on top of Night finds light |
| The Morning of tomorrow's sight |
| I bet you know where you were when |
| That love was made |
| That hell was met |
| First slowly, |
| Then Quickened 'til the forms would wed |
| Night on top of night finds light |
| The Morning of tomorrow's sight |
| You did not think all Time before |
| Was waiting at the bedroom door |
| To welcome the fresh lovers to |
| A world made flesh |
| For what is new |
| Night on top of Night finds light |
| The Morning of tomorrow's sight |
| You would read of such love in a book |
| Through Dante's eyes we wished to look |
| Then read this now and know we've spent |
| A good few nights in church lament |
| ... |
| Peter Student was told once (by whom?) that a tattoo was an artifact of one and all's sensuous |
| commingling with a sort of proto-utopia, the stuff of dreams, of our macabre dance with light and |
| glass and steel, of highschool fantasies and the age of gods. What is reality, Peter thinks now, |
| stranded on a lonely strip of desert highway in west Texas. Is it the way things are or the way we |
| describe them or neither? |
| "And why am I thinking this?" |
| Just then Peter sees another flash of light in the distance, but he's not sure what games the sun |
| might be playing and so he is choosing to wallow selflessly in a fiction of his own choosing - as |
| much as one could choose to die of thirst and exposure anyway. |
|