Love Tastes Vaguely of Almonds

Before you die,
Not quite sure why,
You realise there was just a taste.

In books with endings
You figure out before they end
It always had it's place.

I don't like those books
And I don't like the taste
They leave upon my brain;
A hint of missing talent,
Of paper waste,
Of the cliche that kills
Imagination.

Because of all the ways that we could die,
It just comes back to this one,
A hint of almond on the tongue
The warning just too late.

Those books make me feel like that
Like I've digested arsenic
Or cyanide (or whatever the hell it is)
Into my brain
With no warning ‘till death takes my thoughts.

Love’s like that
It takes your thoughts away
Until none are your own
And you wander and wonder
In a lovelorn stupor,
A romantic coma,
A lovetorn illusion,
Original thought buried in recycled ideas.

Like the footprint in the flowerbed
Easily seen as the flowers are stripped,
And on her bed.

There’s blood on the sheets,
As you forgot to remove the thorns,
You thoughtless lovelorn fucker.

When you get the taste of love
Imagination dies
Replaced by one thousand little gestures,
Someone prepared earlier.
Originality in love is a lie
As even the romantically unromantic is cliché.
Man’s search for original gift of love
Mean’s there is none.

There are only so many times
That the butler can do it
Before he gets too tired.

There are only so many times
The poison can taste vaguely of almond,
Before you spit it out.

: 04 Apr 2005 00:02 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Report a problem