The Joys of Stealth

Rome
the joys of stealth
when we lie white in our mourning slumber
when our skin smells of sun
the filthy mass that moves and talks
is swept into the sea, is gone
when we are naked, when were on fire
when we render secret tribute to
this pain we fake, this blue desire
love is still our craving and our shame
when they come to me
laughing and howling
when they thrust their anguish into me
and lick the blood as it runs down
they dont give place to youthful bloom
not then, not now
in the leaves of blood, in the life of the tribe
i am dead to all the world
except when the noises sleep or hide