If my hands are skilful masters
of your body work
my head is the crude patron
never sick
of self love
This is why I stumble through these hours

It is all dream to me
A strange and curious display
that entertains and cuts believably,
but fiction, nonetheless
So their words this afternoon sailed in this way,
scraps delivered from my soul and stitched together to form nonsense
at least a sense that I cannot feel today.

So their words appeared absurd,
and their praises for what my hands have done
are poorly understood by me, watching from this head.
If they want to make me famous, I will play along.
If they want to push my words into the streets,
If will play along.
If they take my lines of longing, and my slowly crafted book,
and whore it to the ruling classes,
I will smile.

But they are letting a scoundrel in, behind the scenes,
When the lecture hall is standing,
And the park bench is rotting,
He will move to sow his seed.

That park bench was a fucker,
Wasn't it?
I remember you sitting there quietly,
Giving profound concentration to each dreary word.
I went there many times after,
Years on, even,
to see if I could recreate the scene.

Things change too much.

I am coming to Geneva,
I will be quite the prince.
They have my name on their computers,
soon it will be sullied
with a price tag.
You never bought it though,
Which is why I loved you more.

Can I visit you?