Wild is the song I sing; Wilde’s is the sonnet I quote from in a moment
of long lost strength… of long lost strain.
Covered in sheets of skin; wrapped in wounds and chills of night
I gaze in flamboyance of flaming lips and bleeding bloody fright.

Since this soul-stone hemorrhage, provoked by pointless polishing,
releases rock at length… releases loss of nature.
Nocturnal nooky nudity and pubic pores wide open while excreting,
I scar this tissue’s skin of sinful stains by crooning crow’s deleting.

Remember us holding the barricades. Recall us chanting with fixed bayonets.
Evoke us standing up to standards. Bring to mind us ripped up round rough reds.

Feral is the fur I rag; fear all over fuzz which comes to snuffling tears
through long wrecked realms… through long held qualms.
Overthrown by gunshots going chest; poignantly now naked in the fight
I’m no servant, nor will I be slave. Queens are cards, I will preserve my rights…

(and wrongs).

Since this nail-hole massacre, motivated by masc’ra masquerades,
frees the fragile frantic… liberates heart’s piston and heart’s stain.
Clothed in our cannibal’s cute cue; dressed up to occasions never ending,
you stress once more it was just for a moment, our uniforms stood out while they were…

(standing wrongly).

Remember us being the hurricanes. Recall us catching the unpredictable winds of weathers.
Evoke us ignoring the bastards. Bring to mind our passionate, provocative being-togethers.

M.J.C.A. Stout Vuurland, 06-16-2004