Wild Horses Of Fire

Take a sample, that one is body, come down
From the cross, frisk the remains, of meat,
My contemporary, because it was enthusiastical,
To spin in your studio, before the world was
Made, face pressed to glass, air pressed,
You dance, you smile, to spin a kind of
Voguing, before there was air, your
Bloodstream, not a metaphor, for things believed
For a world that believed, art was the knowledge,
It was the sense of this, that there may
Still be communion, fucking will still be immanent,
Imagined as a sketch, in wax which breaks,
The insincerity of this, rises through a semblance.