Feeding themselves
Slaves, like the red tongue
That turns devils, in my hearts
To brains…of getting lucky.
The world is a herd of mistresses
Boy like girls, and men alike, that crave
The scent of the ocean on the women
As well as perfumes, from closing boutiques
Down Barcelona, in the midnight hour, of
Another July
The world is a herd of mistresses
The kind, that don’t know what it is
Not to exist, and create the time to exist
Beyond themselves, the craving to stomp
With white sympathetic legs, across the terrain
Of a thousand raising and falling suns
On the day, of one, in her heart
The world is a herd of mistresses
That when abandon themselves to pure sadness
Find the white mountain, of joy
Unspeculated, and deserved
Because I am looking that way, doesn’t mean I care
When I close my eyes, paint my lips red
And lie under the sun, there is a lot more going on in me
Then you can interpret, through your flimsy vocabulary of symbols
Down a latter of love, you can never descend without my decision
Or rather my indecision confuses you
Though you never belong. Unless you physically harnessed
The emotional apparetdness
Of a city inside a woman, in converted distress of fantastical art forms
On the whim…of being won!
Apart from that! From me and you. It’s all fine.
It’s quite wonderful.
You just sit, there and wonder and the life around you
While I culminate my own, without a spec of paint. on you….
you foolish lover. Like all the others…so accommodating
A rose without a throne. A man without a limit. A song without
the presence to draw her back into non-existent. Man, respect
your body. Draw her limit. Fairy, moon.
No comments:
Post a Comment