and we fell from love's stinking womb
spewing year-long rays of tears behind us
tied and dried in God's handkerchief
these days we almost died,
and time streamed unheeding beside

the sexual injection, love's introjection in
my pulpy fictional heart, roomy as Uma's
in my bruised room at the Radcliffe
wehn you stood long later along love's riverside
and time streamed bleeding by inside

on almost that incendiary eve we burned up
like meteorites so bright in this drowning night where eyes
writhe like dying soldiers in some sodding Somme,
love's most brutal battle, while armies toiled defiling by
and time streamed still, defiled inside

and we dance again, drenched in that blood of fatherly sex,
where doom was said in this closed room and love judged,
drugs placed days on time's best pedestal
and the baggy womb of drugged love time has sewn tight shut
for it was we, indeed, who defiled that restless time a night defined

a time so ill-defined
death's entrance by David McLean
(Read a review of McLean's 'Cadaver's Dance' here.