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I remember when I used to spar with illusions and find myself boisterous in the noise of poised confusion (in a nutshell: I'm just trying to find my way to satisfy the feeling I've been knocking since complying with my dying intuition for the masses.) as a last resort to fluid sorts (companions) of the tarnished marshaled heralds who brought their
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You wore the slippers made of Kaposi's,
The gown of night and soaking sweats. You moved
As if you had been photographed -- you blurred
The trees you passed before. You held the box
INside your chest somehow, the ribbons were
Your arteries, its corners were your spine
And ribs. I pleaded with you, pleaded that
You give me what you hid from me; you laughed
Like it was not as painful as it was for you,
And suddenly the ground was silver clouds
And we were so in love it was impossible
That you were dead. I saw you coming close,
I saw you and you had a gift for me,
The gift of AIDS and blood that was your heart,
Your beating heart, your beating, beating heart.
-- "The Gift of AIDS" by Rafael Campo.
(i totally did not make that up.)
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