What's Left In The Air, So Fair, Decomposes As The Walls of Absolute Truth In Philosophy

I held out my hand to him,
standing open
with crushed moonlight heavy
around us,
making faces blurs in the night
and I could feel my corpse white flesh
glow

he sat on the ground,
staring at the veins in my wrist
watching, waiting
mutilating grass between his fingers

Kant's steeple towered over us,
bleak, huge, and old
full of an idealistic god's presence,
absolute complex understanding.
new values and merely a book
for whom thinking is a delight, nothing else -
sick existentialist dreams

his eyes wandered up my arm,
to my breasts, sliding down stomach
making a slow end to the crotch,
heated, inflamed with love's lie
and tortured with bodily miseries.

"I like them better dead."

the chokers against my throat
chafe and burn,
self strangulation, stagnant blood flow

he touched my hand,
I thought to walk away,
but instead I led
our platonic philosophical love
out of the air

the country is filled with people
who are no thinkers any longer:
something else delights and impresses them