In a nightgown in the middle of the dance floor,
our eyes accustomed to
the red glow of a cigarette.
Tenderly hysterical,
the crowd an assailant --
can I dance laughing,
get all I want?
Moaning, you project a single part
of our future, cut with
fires, sprawling eyes.
At the edge of the room,
a risk staggers, crosses your side.
In here, the mind is loose,
creeps into your details.
The first time you
made love you
wanted to die,
spirit rising,
a search party
harbouring weaknesses.
Tempt the essential,
the hell of a
dark grove.
Dense, your cry,
back up to the light,
correspond to the
legends of goodness,
a mournful way of life,
no luck, no quiet attention.
Go off, an exit disturbed,
a little lonely,
out of place.
Tell me what you're going to do:
The incredible potential almost a
declaration of fury.
Upon return, give luck an edge,
your charm a part
of our desperation.
I find the last remnants
of a connection in a low-rent version of
a harem room where the
song ends, begins again,
letting in more light.
Many things were blocked.
Now, mythos pops, scratches.
This is hard.
Ask now.
The mynah bird crashes, dark stains
on the wood.
Shut your eyes.
I see everything.
The wood holds many spirits.
Ask now and
be ready for the truth.
The owls won't see us.
I met the devil
in the form of fire,
a coward in the smoke.
I go to great lengths
to keep the ashes under control.
It takes its toll.
You're two days late
to burst into flames.
The mist is pressing in.
Bird call precaution,
mournful in the dark grove.
The first time you
made love you
wanted to die.
Go back up to the light.
There is an essential spirit rising;
search party confirmed.
Stunned to cry, you tempt weaknesses,
a nightmare, degrading the goodness
in the world.
Solitary, you judge what the photograph buries.
You're not afraid, not afraid.
Rise, start.
Now realize where we are:
a half circle where
the mood swings with a
slow sip of time.
A kiss, impulsive,
stricken with emerald.
I don't think you know
I left something hiding in there.
You really are good looking.
Become erratic, dead leather beauty.
This is different.
I've got my heart set on
reluctant poems,
a rush of lies between us
wandering. Restless spirit,
I feel it:
head cropped, surgical
instruction in the ways of love.
I don't want us to be like that.
The red drapes from my dreams, they
say too much, the truth, or a memory.
In the woods, a widening
we can't prove yet.
The less you know, the better.
