Saturday, February 7, 2009

Fever and tears

A class is on the move.

Familiar symbols cast their long shadows on the white screen,

They come and go

As he speaks on, making various gestures,

The listeners paint images on their own;

But this is not all.

The voices are just apologies to the tympanum,

Like the cries of a thousand hungry beggars

Outside His Majesty's palatial gates.

But the King listens only to a symphony,

Played in his heart from memory,

A child prodigy played the castle's damp walls

into liveliness the night before,

The echoes have wound, or have they?

Handel. And the Escapist.


My mind drifts away,

My clock unwinds,

My feet retrace,

And I am at the edge

Of a familiar white bed.

And I miss you again,


Like Love Long Lost.

I feel my feet against the cold floor,

The splash of a thousand golden drops

Against the ever unstill surface,

They come of the fountain

And plunge into the water

Over and over again,

For pleasure unknown.

Me too,

For love's labours

Are neither measurable nor expressible.

I touch your soft skin again,

My lips caress the strawberry,

My stomach sinks

When your chocolate nails sank deeper,

I wonder if I could taste them.

My hand is disobedient,

Climbing down your back

Strides on the waves.

Vice surges.

Loves potion instills further.

The sweet poison is prepared,

And it is hot,

With steam dancing erotically all over the brew,

Lovemaking awaits.

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