Nina Zivancevic

The Elizabethans called it dying

I know how lovers come to kill one another if
Passion is there; once I almost did it, then
Althusser killed his wife out of euthanasia, then
Burroughs killed his wife out of negligence, then
This pop singer of Noir Desir who kept a low profile
At his trial, poor guy, if you looked at his face you could see
That he already outlived his punishment and his Hell;

Don't worry my love, I will never hurt you, I'd never even
Dream of it it's like, the hour of love
Is already gone, but we are reinventing it, with its goady
Desire, its gothic equipment, with a simple prerequisite 'eager-to-be-loved'.
When all the masks and costumes fall off We remain silent and perfect.


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