You are a moon hidden behind the glaze of a cloudless sky. You are falling towards the darkness.
You have dreamt this dream before, a thousand times one thousand. You have dreamt this dream before.
You are watching yourself decay through the reflection in the mirror. You touch your flesh, and imagine it is someone else reaping your eye from its hollowed socket. Just so you can feel something.
You awaken to separation in everything.
You hear daughters scream songs that you thought only dying violins could sing
You burn in jaded flame like hearts pain
You burn in jaded flame like hearts pain
You are dancing upon the crying surface of the star light moon, this is no dream, this is all that is. You do not question any more, doubt is as far away as the blue jigsaw puzzle in the sky.
No one knows what goes on there, a true mystery in fact. You have only slightly over heard the stories of demons and angels, orgasms of fate and time.
It’s said, they actually believe they understand.
The dust of millions of forgotten folk songs, the only story of their history, tickle the empty spaces in between your toes, caress your shins, kiss your knees, sway with the sweet taste of your thighs, slowly sleek up delicate mountains of your spine, around the innocent hairs of your neck and enter your bloody nostrils tickling the inside of your throat like a fountain of dancing spiders, spinning in circles of ecstasy, filling your lungs, forever disappearing, singing beautiful horrors.
The only true stories of their history. You breathe out one last desperate mist before collapsing; and struggle to remember if this is all just a night dream
Black pines wade the snows like solemn hunters, a susuruss crosses heavy, like thunder. Who has made this winter wander longer? Wonders a wordless world, thrown under billows of ice. As cold as alone. Who is turning this world to stone?
Don't know where you got it Wooly Bully and don't care to look but it is how I feel in the winter..
Meaningless distractions to stop her shaking Her aching saying what do you want to do? Trying to understand is just another hobby.
This true maudlin girl sucking your thumb Walking through titan your smile ignites It’s all I can do to not think of you Your downtown door awaits Both praying I’ll soon arrive
Rich maudlin girl what wealth you carry Your beauty undecided fills my heart I am a man tortured to decision Let be your desire and forgotten past
My Maudlin girl see you’re wanted By boys playing games to fake marriage To homes without laughter and banality To treaded grounds where some of our mother and fathers bury their souls but not ours
Oh Maudlin girl our souls shift closer pure Be awake if I come Love pure for loves sake My pip, I am changed
To be reflects Words a gathered pool Sitting between upright ponds A void is reading the news
Smile filling my cup then come sit beside me My fleeting glance has afforded this much at least Your break is now, talk to the girls Borrow a joint and ask me for a light Wind, dust and smoke makes a working class portrait...
I have nothing to give and nothing to say To your died red hair and pale cream thighs It’s easy charm and inching, you look Around the side and in the alley, take your break again
Sitting at the bar: young handsome cancer Flies hover an open wound The frustrated guru is almost spitting Almost glib with his truth And they drip their eggs. In the city, he says To a chorus of nods, You have to walk for a long time, On a clear night, Before you see the stars.
Last night I dreamt of you I thought we’d forgotten all about that love but there we were, Ruining my morning.......
She wears hot pink panties on the outside of her clothes just to provoke the joke of the conformity that she loves to grotesquely and so beautifully oppose
She shaves her legs in a pitch black room and plays connect-the-dots with her nicks and cuts to pass the unending hours of noon
She spends eons in silence listening to her own thoughts then rattles off and expunges my poetry to equate some meaningless meaning so that it wasn’t all for naught
She is madness in motion, senseless and sensual a carnal need of squirming desires and trials a prickly flower that blooms in hot pink panties in a pitch black room, crystal quiet where no one notices the blood stains on the tile.
“Kant says that destiny is a rearrangement of chaotic decimals.”
That was a first. No partner had ever quoted Kant before. In fact, I couldn’t remember a partner ever saying anything memorable after lovemaking.
I stayed over.
I didn’t know much about her. Barely knew her name,… Cindy I think. Met her at the "Three Bells" where we were both listening to the Bernie Nix trio. At intermission I struck up a conversation at the bar, discussed jazz: did she think Bernie’s playing had changed much since his days with Ornette, was she up on younger players like Joe Giglio and John Stowell, you know … lubricants,… while all of me was entirely focused on primal concerns, I’m not sure I listened to her responses, certainly I couldn’t quote them for you, I was intent on the seduction, on satisfying the proverbial goal of “getting my rocks off.”
It was rare for me to spend the night. I enjoyed sex. I enjoyed variety. I enjoyed going back to my own digs. But a Kantian orgasm? You just don’t mess with that.
In the morning I woke to:“Heraclitus says time is a function of memory which in turn is a nervous response to one’s environment.”
Then she took me in her mouth.
A week later – never having left her apartment – and more practiced, I was taking her doggie style on the floor when she popped “Hegel felt that the Historic was nothing but an opportunity for Spirit to empiricize the formulaic,”– we came together.
Our love making had reached a pitch of perfection.
Going on three weeks and I had never returned to my place. I couldn’t bear to be away from her. She had broken through. I wasn’t the same man. I was hooked.
After a long day, I was fatigued and went to bed. I wasn’t in the mood. She whispered in my ear,“Descartes felt that the Mind should be considered a First Principle,”– it stood upright. I was delirious. I finally understood what love was. I couldn’t wait to call Gran and Pop. Now my chance to ask the question. The following night, while drinking champagne, I said,
“Aristotle said Love was the continuous conversation.”