| POEMS: 240309 - March 24th, 2009 |
http://groups.google.com |
| Robert Morpheal, Bob Ezergailis, Morphealism (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2009/03/23 00:25 |
240309A
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They might tell you anything,
never telling you the one secret
that you always need the most
and it would inevitably cost you
more than you could ever pay
for the finding of that one answer.
The price is always rising,
beyond anything you ever counted;
in terms of raw flesh,
and other varied forms
of personal failure,
so you fold another losing hand.
Something was always lost
among chilled formalities,
something always cutting off
the various lines of approach,
the way a sudden cold snap
nips the blossom in the bud.
You request a variance
from replaying the usual drama,
but there is no one there
to grant that type of reprieve,
so you count your sorrows,
running short of stars in the sky.
You try to tell yourself
knowing what is always taken
is what you would have kept,
not what you would abandon,
but the ending is all the same.
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240309B
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Along those streets
of girl boy,
boy girl,
and various intercessions
of the utterly sexless,
strait jacketed up tights,
cinched up tighter,
and the ball crushing
flattened out times
that some of the passing
really believe is a life,
strapped on with batteries.
It gets so bad
that the color white
becomes unthinkable,
as intolerable as flags
or bandages,
proving too similar
to milky body secretions
from cocks
and festering wounds.
You refuse to surrender,
making up your mind
to die on your barricades,
without questioning
whether to defend this or that,
so you cover the white flag
with wild colors and the letters
of the miserable alphabet.
You see her somewhere,
without knowing her name,
and all you can think of
is silencing the conversation,
while rubbing
your inflamed cock
hard up against
whatever is inside of her,
rending the oyster flesh
from your clamshell pelvis,
making it cum racing
down the shaft like shot
from the barrel of a gun,
until you are spent your load,
lying there dead
in the middle of her field..
Then all you can think of,
is about a fast reload,
and doing it again.
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240308C
-----------
Sweet lady I know
you do not know me,
perhaps you never will,
but I want you,
and I want you
I want you here,
I want you there,
I want you
in every time
and in every place,
I want you then,
I want you now,
in a wanting
that never ends.
I am the wounded
and I am the broken
wanting you,
that wants you,
and wants you,
with every dying breath.
I am the shadow
when he counts his living,
when he counts his dead..
He knows he has no need
of anything you have,
of anything you bring.
He has his men instead.
And I want you,
I want you,
I am the whisperer,
inside your head.
I want you,
and I want you
I am the sudden touch,
when no one is there.
I am the kiss on your lips
when you are all alone.
I want you,
and I want you,
that much,
and maybe more.
I want you,
and I want you,
is all there is to tell,
from your beginning,
to your end.
I want you yesterday,
I want you tomorrow,
I want you now and then,
I want you,
and I want you,
in each advance
and every retreat.
I want you sweet lady,
I want you more each day.
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240309D
-----------
They gather there,
in the evening, under the moon,
trying to find some magic,
around a candle,
without a prayer,
the words on their tongues
melting like wafers
made of flesh
secretly leavened with sex.
I would turn your blood
into wine,
so we can drink of it.
Wanting to taste
everything you keep hidden,
of your ancestors,
knowing they wait for us,
as do bones in silent graves,
under the parched sky.
The rhythm of my heart
is steady as the pounding
of cannon,
breaking your midships,
wanting to sink you,
into the mattress of the bed,
pillaged and looted,
burning hot,
under the furled sheets.
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240309E
-----------
He wants her lips
the way a normal man
wants to escape
whatever it is
that she really is.
Red is the color
of danger,
signs signaling stop,
and do not enter.
When she leads him
to other places ,
he always returns
to the taste
of her lips,
silenced against his,
the way a drunk returns,
to liquor,
the way an addict returns,
to the needle.
and he wants his.
Another dose of her.
Another fix,
of her flesh.
He wants her
the way a junky wants
the drug
in his bloodstream,
and he knows
craving another taste
of her lips.
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240309F
-----------
Traffic passes,
looking for something,
none of them dare
to name,
and none of them
really own,
but traffic passes,
beaming headlights
of eternal recurrence,
into the long thin night,
as it stretches,
stretched out,
between lit windows
and darkness,
stretches
of hurried evasions,
and you only need
to wonder,
how many,
will have the courage
to fuck
before it is all over
and passes
into the forever dark
of forever night.
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