Friday, November 7, 2014

PASSION AND PICKLES

THE HEART ALWAYS HAS A BROKEN WING ...


My unwrapped lady, as she lies asleep,
unribboned, tinsel threads still twinkling,
winking in her nether hairs, is slowly clothed anew
by night and shadow, briefly, before thieving darkness,
that most promiscuous of prowlers,
that haunting hunter, like twilight's
slinking beast dragging its kill into sunless ink,
(Spear or tongue, stone or bread, touch is the only truth.)
shrouds her in graying that no claws
can slash, slice, break through to light.
Oh, how I envy all those flickering tongues
choreographed by the candle's waning flame
flirting with its breeze-born death,
as they dance, lick, and tease
on altar streched between nipple and knees.
(Spear or tongue, stone or bread, touch is the only truth.)
Only death holds closer;
but death only kills.
Savor the sweetness of love's freedom.
One can escape, refuse, deny love,
as one cannot death;
but then one lives
an actor costumed in one's own corpse.
(Spear or tongue, stone or bread, touch is the only truth.)















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A SELF UNSHARED SHRIVELS.