cities bored
thick colors breath on me
while lucid doves pick the passers teeth
the dust of ancient lovers crowd the street
i paint a sunken world
pouring from our lips and meager feet
a circus of unkempt blood and hair
i am born here like the walls themselves,
often keeping out the rain..
my own ceiling is the fire of memory.
and often endless dreams
turn inward like buttons
a constant series of graphs behind
our eyes.
3 comments:
At night, I toss and turn;
not adorn of worries nor concerns
but, because, the space devoid of bodies
leaves the heat of passion escaping.
Perhaps, it's a matter of friction.
Perhaps, it's a matter of staying in motion.
Whatever the reason, these lonely nights
keep my eyes open.
---
I paint a scene with fingertips on skin;
caressing every curve, learning her
every pleasure.
I measure the space between sighs and exhales;
as a back arches / rises from a bed;
as a head is thrown back in ecstasy.
Her heartbeat beckons me
with it's rhythmic, yet erratic beating.
So deep it rings a melody that still haunts me
during these lonely nights.
---
I am born where the torture ends
and I die when it happens again;
and if I could freeze this moment,
in avoidance,
I wouldn't.
For I would not deprive, or deny
the days and nights spent with you.
I'm going to be in NYC tmrw call me and we will go to an awesome show. 1(315) 297 1285....
-s.
nice
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