There are two blue veins that run
Riverine on your fair forearm: among the forests.
They are the sole obsession of
The twin stars that shine on the horizon
Streaked by the peachy fingers of my dawn.
The rain clouds have smoked up the skies
And a million painful ants are crawling on the ground
Among the worms and the maggots and other filth.
There are so many faces assembled here
And their mouths are all weirdly the same.
There are one hundred clones of you.
There are one hundred different clones of me.