sequence - 'Fingers' On a Blues'

 watching him uproot the remnant of rust. How tedious and sad. 

 facing myself, image seen through soot-stained mirror...years of self-fabrications. 

 after eleven cravings. his shirt litters my floor, my regret his lips. 

 good looking, sex appeal indecent but nice. in his laughter sour gravestones and greedy sepulchres.

woman's liberation, grasping her breast with hands stained by predators...you call that liberation? 

 boy spoke palindromes, waist deep in excrement of this foolish world.

to adorne the soul with blood chandeliers, you arrive midnight covers the peak of my knees.

encarnadine laughter eyes seeing beyond seeing. pores speaking rank words to evening. 

 he was like a cat, bringing dead mice he killed. unsolicited acts of devotion. 

 the gilded maggots feeding on the corpse of this Venetian state. 

 of that ancient ilk recognizing no other aristocracy except self. 

 facing a rising sea of corruption-the bigwigs dance upon plush floors of bones and trampled veins. 

 disoriented, his discordant moan lost in the crowd of silence.

the little moments of pain came immediately. they came in warm sunlit afternoons. they came in her steps. 

 old woman. stockinged legs seated in the park; old cinnamon and regrets. 

 with poised, open legs; receiving your stone whispers like long pearls strung along chains of silk. 

 walking arm in arm pitch dark streets, the dense foliage...hands reaching for the other; groaning night. 

 awoke, dusting sequence of images from the breath of my mind. 

 skies lit with old mans' regret. tastes bourbon yesterdays, skittishly. 

 absolution for iniquitous hands :: pardon for this mind. soul seeking You. 

 writing for flattering response the joy walks away. 

 rush out door work ain't nothing but indian summers at an end. 

 bathtub memories casual laughter some forgotten thing. 

 fingers on a blues I seemed to have lost my pulse your grosgrain eyes.

ever known me to conspire behind tea now the oaks sing. 

 constant fighting he still came contemporary moor his dark, palatable. 

 in the waters of my blood-life scratch shadows of song, paint my eyes with them.

yesterdays walked an even pace a trip to the mountains...nah, monte carlo evenings.

who come speak this speech? words are haiku, say much with less. 

 made of bark yo sap diluted tundra skies and starry dusts. 

 we got outta playin like we understand. the belly of this-is-what-it-is. 

 cool evenings wicker sambas our own junkanoo. 

 closed eyes I pray you knee-roots firmly plant me.

our house and its full of out of place things. our house.

©2011-Wordchestra Pub