Poetry: August 10, 2012
Should SISYPHUS crumble and drop his stone
He would not be alone. Morbid would be his wake
And mute would be the vows he’d take to reconstruct his throne
As long as his family had a stable home, his horses could pull
What sorrows he’d break, until his hands were full, of wild orchids
For his loved ones and mountain tops that his fists would scrape,
To form foundations for putting down stakes. His rolling never stops.
From his voice come the songs of nomads, clinging to the rocks.
And singing to the spinning wheels right beyond the gates.
Seems like papa was a rolling stone, bigger than he thought.
The Cracks are Peeling On your Wall.
The Slippery Elm outside Does Bend,
Towards your Sleek Stiletto Heel;
Which Upon My Cartilage Bumps and Grinds.
I bid your service and do as told
Because I Am Not Being Watched.
And, because you are the type,
I’ve Died To Bed in Still of Night.
I break in sweat but to appease
And open wide my eager mouth,
To Drive my Tongue around your Breasts
Then rest my Digits inside your Nest.
Scarce Morality does Not Pertain to Creatures
Fondled by Adam’s Lust, I hardly need your
Scolding Words, I Do what you Daren’t,
I Seethe; You Must Tear Away
Your Gingham Dress, if not but for
A Little While, Give Yourself to Yourself
Impress and to Labor Bid Goodbye,
Your Shadow Is Your Blanket Best.
Yet let the Angles of the Light
Creep onto your Beading Skin,
But Save Some Dance for Central Night,
For One whose Lover’s Face is Bold
And Bright. And THEN score; Tail to Tongue
to Teeth to Crotch, Because You Are Not