LETHE
03-23-2008, 08:21 AM
The final silence saved me, happy,
just for the visit.
Weary bones arrayed in line, sequestered in that place.
I lie, to lie no more of life; pointing to other things.
Disseminated. The worst of all these slight farragoes over.
It was just a quick taste of the carnival of lust and what is easy.
Women feel, they are cyclic of days at that.
Feeling
the thrum of ‘vibrant close’, the point the fingers make
when all the gestures are new, or when quality is still intact.
They know a man, and why he leaks purpose
or in defining it, reaps havoc of a different kind.
The uncensored slit of his mouth is barely able to smile
as plans to change the world spill out
to find a place that only he knows.
This wicked tangential thing he is
who pre-supposes value.
She watches
fascinated somehow. Aware of his days re-counted with a stick,
his ego quick to swell and burst; the fragments need collecting
finding yet again
as the heart beats beats beats
in tremulous reply to visions of life.
The on and off tap.
Biologic nightmare,
when she can’t say she cares, for fear of losing face.
Whoever thought we could be equal, spent reconfigured,
full
of
life
but lost of that responsibility filling up the years
to wait for completion.
Small heads are vagina bound,
to see the proof of difference,
or find soft voice waiting to reply.
It’s late
this night and she’s come to touch that place
she smiles
and she impregnates you somehow, the wonder is intact,
soft flesh so different from yours. Moving to desire
aspiring to the value still of new,
of something else you found.
It’s always new though the stories old.
just for the visit.
Weary bones arrayed in line, sequestered in that place.
I lie, to lie no more of life; pointing to other things.
Disseminated. The worst of all these slight farragoes over.
It was just a quick taste of the carnival of lust and what is easy.
Women feel, they are cyclic of days at that.
Feeling
the thrum of ‘vibrant close’, the point the fingers make
when all the gestures are new, or when quality is still intact.
They know a man, and why he leaks purpose
or in defining it, reaps havoc of a different kind.
The uncensored slit of his mouth is barely able to smile
as plans to change the world spill out
to find a place that only he knows.
This wicked tangential thing he is
who pre-supposes value.
She watches
fascinated somehow. Aware of his days re-counted with a stick,
his ego quick to swell and burst; the fragments need collecting
finding yet again
as the heart beats beats beats
in tremulous reply to visions of life.
The on and off tap.
Biologic nightmare,
when she can’t say she cares, for fear of losing face.
Whoever thought we could be equal, spent reconfigured,
full
of
life
but lost of that responsibility filling up the years
to wait for completion.
Small heads are vagina bound,
to see the proof of difference,
or find soft voice waiting to reply.
It’s late
this night and she’s come to touch that place
she smiles
and she impregnates you somehow, the wonder is intact,
soft flesh so different from yours. Moving to desire
aspiring to the value still of new,
of something else you found.
It’s always new though the stories old.