Intense falsities
By Luke Hsieh dedicated to K.D
Looking lovingly at these Literary little-litters,
Something seems seriously missing,
Given all the tear-invoking endings,
Promises reads diamonds, roses and wonders,
Ever soothing waterfall in the mid-spring,
Revisiting fairly these literary little litters,
How I loved reading those sweet intense fevers,
Even now that the authors - who wrote me those,
Had died as all spring flowers do, as all roses,
Oh, no, they are not dead! Those young and sweet maidens,
But 'tis all but dreamy but difficult details now,
Whether her (their) soul(s) are on earth or heaven,
For when meaning is detached, they are but actors bow
After the curtain calls...love, love, love!
And what attention is paid miraculous detail?
The meaning of these lengthy but little literary litters,
I do not hate those - by and by - those words frail,
Her woes, her love, his tears, his fears, lovers!
Those letters, love letters, old love letters, derailed
Of all meaning, reading them still gives me the pleasure,
The pleasure of knowing that she so willing performed and I her,
In these letters - as in all books of poetry,
My Dearest friend, be not so sad,
If one day we part, this poem will not go bad,
For it will still give a kind of Intense falsity, false intensity,
Though I do wish that our friendship does bloom forever yet ever,
Yet reading all the past letters, all the bypassers,
We should seek beauty within incomplete intensities,
That should we part, we will have in our hand this unfinished symphony,
The beautiful false intensity...lily like literary litter little.
Luke Hsieh