I think that's the most beautiful piece of poetry I've ever read. I won't convince you. Here's my fav poem.Little Beast1An all-night barbecue. A dance on the courthouse lawn. The radio aches a little tune thet tells the story of what the night is thinking. It's thinking of love. It's thinking about stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster. That's a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey kisses for everyone.Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating a fruit pie with a buckknife carves the likeness of his lover's face into the motel wall. I like himand I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.2 Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure. I'm sure you remember. I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.3History repeats itself. Somebody says this. History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters. History is a little man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is outside of.I know history. There are many names in the history but none of them are ours.4He had green eyes, so I wanted to sleep with him green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool--You could drown in those eyes,I said. The fact of his pulse,the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire not to disturb the air around him.Everyone could see the way his muscles worked, the way we look like animals, his skin barely keeping him inside. I wanted to take him homeand rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his like a crash test car. I wanted to be wanted and he wasvery beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good when moving. You could drown in those eyes, I said, so it's summer, so it's suicide,so we're helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.5It wasn't until we were well past the middle of it that we realizedthe old dull pain, whose stitched wrist and clammy fingers, far from being subverted,had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed. Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us, replete with tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes and not the doorway we had hoped for.His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker that before, scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.6We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars as the road around usgrew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view trough the glass already laced with frost,but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of lullabies.But damn if there isn't anything sexier than a slender boy with a handgun. a fast car, a bottle of pills.7What would you like? I'd like my money's worth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this-- swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots with both handsbut we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say Sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine.I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.-------------------I'm speechless.