Friday, October 11

Beneath a pale moon-spit sky

Exclamations of those thrown overboard? How!
Let's leave 'em to the sharks. Larks?
Singing, the singing of birds on the bough?
I drother take a turn on the stone of sparks.

Without her, I live and thrive and drive,
Passionless, through the desert of my soul,
Which, arid and without wind, I traverse
Amid a storm of windy thoughts of better climes.

Has it been so much, or too much, to clip
Wings whose dual ambition: to Soar!
Must needs recede and, dying, dip?
Alas, the most immaculate whore.

All else besides, I long for that stir,
That stir of living blood within my heart.
Perhaps it's late, as I've died too far;
I won't forget her: my precious tart.

Remember the dancing gold of her hair?
The glittering, piercing eyes?
The all-too-rare touch of her fair
Skin amid the stifled sighs?

After your hops and skips that tantalized;
Your jeans that were torn so perfectly:
Became a spell that mesmerized
And beyond doubt and death tormented me.

How often must I recall your jumps? Your sex
Brought me to another level of low that, a hex?
Must have been the sign of times before which
I haven't seen such a thing, 'specially not such a bitch.

Your uterus flew udderly without care
For my feelings, which, nonetheless, suffered despair.
How a thing such as thou canst not be aware
Of all of our human defaults and silly things, I can't dare (to say).

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