She awoke and set her limits
No longer wishing, praying
Betting on lust over magic
For her pressure was magic
And lust was present
Betwixt forefinger and thumb
Madness and numb
Flutter and bang
Hollywood and Georgia
And with one long step
Knee high and leather
Lust’s little letter
Dropped in to visit.
This is not the answer nor should it be left misunderstood
Gods carefully listened but none took action
Forgotten and dead lay the bushel of corn
Raspy, hoarse, brown
Thickening day lay low
And Divine Interpretation was a plan that could not be laid
For dead leaves had fallen and no new growth was expected
Until the decaying layers of slumber departed
Swift onset of thaw set in for another season under her breast.
I want to feel you
Until the lonesome bubbles
Fade away from my open eyes,
Huddled in the darkness;
Wooden chair holding
My scissors and notebook.
I want to feel you
So the open pages
I haven’t found to mark
Stay to the light
Outside your door;
Knocking my heart
Ceases, overwhelmed by thunder.
And so I came to the hill
Wrapped in all things
Left here to dry, to weep and cry
To spell out long letters
To those last glimpses of my truth
Who have left the last marks
Ravaging the little beasts
Smoking atop the hill so crested.
And then it began to drip down
Along the side of my being
Gooey globs of scent infused
Suffering that made me stop,
At the giant drops of passion,
And remember how far
I still have to go
For I think I have a hill to climb.
I found you in the golden era of telegraphy
Long you swept, hard you clicked
We always, forever, kept quite a line
That bounced us as if ever worn
Ever tried, ever sent and ever received.
I waited, listened, you spoke and I heard
We danced to the tune of crispy crackles
And we never closed our doors
For we heard, and that was enough.
I’ve lost the faith like my ancient sock
Fallen and gambling
Delayed and betrayed
Tied to the system but still struggling on
Finding a meaning in spite opposition
Trying as if it was on my mind
To be the only one left standing
As if alone on the wall would be perfect
You know the moon never sings
Though she sits still and observes
It’s me who sings here every night
Stretched and waning in a mood yet understood
Worn out for the ransom.