Don’t quote me on what I’ve done
Dragging my vowels and
Stripping bare my intentions
I didn’t ask to be desire
Placed high upon intentions
Dancing with beautiful strangers
Yes, lofty instructions
For strangled divinity
Month: July 2013
No Direction Known (day 797)
I am a victim of a cry
I am saddened no desire
Your denial of pleasure
Of finer things in life
Another way
I am a truth without a cause
A burning candle without a wick
When things explode
I am the hole
Absent of memory
I am a lesson never learnt
Beaten into fibrous lush
Browned and featureless
Lost and empty
Homeless
I am the midnight street walking
A single fluorescent light aglow
Long shadows down the road
And no finger prints
Left outdoors
I am not your golden rule
Your constant stream of pleasure
Lollygagging in suns warmth
Straight and narrow
There is no direction known
Angels Embrace (day 796)
I dance with an angel slithering up my back
Lightly digging her fingernails into points on my spine
Our sweet summer skin melting in the motion
A smooth song hits us in sensitive spots
Ebbing and swelling the tips of our hearts
We inhale each others substance
Focus gathers in tiny beads of sweat
Flickering brightly in the midday sun
Her collar bone eats up my carnivorous thoughts
Tempting my index finger to trace lower edges
Hiding in the shadows, decadent as they wait
She spins, fingers lightly touch my ribs
….and we hold.
Agape (day 795)
No desire, no direction pointed towards
Or passion warming the hearth
With a listless presence, standing
Mouth agape, as bait laid carelessly
In a young child’s idle play
Ebbs at the sight of prey
Understanding, in the heat of noon
Dirt clouds seeking moisture,
Wild calls shan’t be pry thy ears
Shan’t whip thy conscience into curt action
That thunders in yonder distant hills
All rests timelessly
All accumulates that which old books,
Unactivated ceiling fans, and
Old couch-sofas in a sunbeam’s gaze
Collect, like passport stickers,
Green-rot below country home taps, and
Knots in old women’s backs
Seem to enrich all our lives in
Sweet mother natures precious stamp
Time which counts ever longer
Into agape county rancher-home scenes
Tea is served through the wire mesh
Swing door on a rancher style patio
With hard footsteps of stiff manners
And an old rocking chair
With one checkered cushion
While sun recedes behind
Yonder silent hills
Slowly rocking in the evenings breeze
After The Rain Comes (day 794)
Puddles
Vivid smell
Saturation
Daddies Rusty Gun (day 793)
I used to be a dangerous babe
Then I dashed away my stripes
And wrote away my lovers
I stuck them like pigs
Flapping in the breeze
Their hearts around my neck
In golden lockets
Blazed with scorn of time
Shifting about my mothers brow
I splattered about my mirror
My soul, so I could watch it
In pouting and daunting sex appeal
Seemingly oozing down my leg
As if spit on me by studs
Strap-backed homies with
Daddies rusty gun
I used to be a dangerous babe
Then I stripped away my vain
Carved remorse into my pale arms
And blew kisses into the wind
Pushing Defeat (day 792)
I am pushing away my talents into a pit full of defeat
Losing my sense of touch as I turn off my eyes and shut out my ears
I am managing my vices into small little pockets
Keeping them close to reap what I fancy while ignoring the pangs
I am losing my stability that once held my shoulders back and head high
As I slouch forward at my torture all day passing wisdom into ignorant ears
I am glass without even a foggy decay bouncing about the oceans surf
No message, no inside, not even a small culture clinging to the rough edges
I am falling into the lost pages of all the dusty books
Pressed flat to be a disconnected memory with a faint lingering scent
But alas, I am a strong thought late at night when all else settles down
When the moon rises and coyotes howl and the sheets rumple at thy feet
Falls Speed (day 791)
I couldn’t grab
Her lonely heart
That Floating by
Upon a breeze
For it was wound
Around a leaf
Spent away
In falls speed
The Modern Typist (day 790)
It is your unceasing soul
Your desire to punctuate my
Cream colored white
With apostro-iphic delight
Left justifying my
Unruly letter – one inch margin
And standard Calibri
My 10 point font
Words, you keep saying
Is making love to a typewriter
Punctual, emphasized
Wet ribbon and mechanical
Glide (day 789)
Would you glide under me
If I told you how tremendous your advantage was?
Gently laying your hands
Upon my aggressive hips
Digging deeper for anticipated passion
Rustling night air with sensuality
Do you like the way music
Catches hold of our souls and ignites fire
Hidden sublimely in the embers?
There is a saturation point
Where sight isn’t relevant
Eyelids gently shut and
Eyes rolled to the sky
Toes curling in an arching kind of way
Just like the small of your back would feel
If I were to encourage you
To glide under the touch of
My well trained hands
Like a man as a lover should
