Riding a comet of other nights, beneath the roaring clouds,
grey quickening from a hail that splits the air with its velocity.
In truth the waves of din that shower up the tin drum roof,
of this, a swiftly moving car
Going deeper, ever deeper into the night.
The headlights peer into restless swirls of fog and bleak,
until the exit, many miles in coming,
slams into our vision.
Oh how silent I am, how my lips are pursed.
How much I have said, and yet long to say,
but will not say.
My golden years are short and shrinking,
can I should I must I wait, and give them over to you.
You distant from me,
as far away as the gray vault stretches up,
the sweeping spotlights of some distant town,
pillars to that infinity.
Can I with any grace give,
that pulse that drives me like a beating banging drum,
the banging drum of pounding hail.
That is within, not without. Within.
Cliches swirl through my sleep starved head,
I would throw up instead, and say nothing,
rather than write such peevish trash,
in ode to what I feel.
Once when first we touched our eyes,
a softening gaze alighted glance on another,
you were all that was real, and otherwise,
I stumbled through a dream,
a shower of cold alone.
Now you are so far from me,
though the veins on your hands are carved in the corner of my eye,
your features chiseled in my memory,
your eyes fixed out towards the road beyond,
and slipping nigh.
Into the distance.
You know of course, you always knew,
how bad the contemporary poet is,
writing reflections and sopping sound
with the hemorrhaging of loathe sentimentality.
Clasping clawing on to moments that are made of kitsch collected,
and shoved sidewise through one ear,
and out the empty other.
You know, of course, you always knew,
how I would be given to these,
not flights of fancy,
but slogs of sloth,
a lazy turn of phrase to make
the cruelest emptiness of our life's journey.
For better rhymes we cast about,
for some chain of the trinity we reach,
but it our grasp is exceeded.
No, Dante died so long ago,
that his eternal embroidered poetic prose
as if made perfect by that other sun,
that spins about the earth,
moved by a love that made a world,
Or so it says in your mythology.
Mine has been lost in all the details,
to soot and incense in crag'd, should that be a word?
mountains that are etched by ageless rains
that sweep from the roof of the ages,
fed by that third pole of explorers ambition.
Into thin air has gone the breath of rhapsody,
and lyrics are cast in such obnoxious paucity.
That a single turn of profile can turn,
the music charts, into a circus.
Utter in any language that you know,
while there is still touch in summer's glow,
that the rip of ranting raving repetition,
will give way, again, to sonorous diction.
Twist my body until my lips,
are plumped with a fullness of blood,
that ripens their shape to fruits of pure delection.
Bend my legs until I am a folded fan,
an origami abridged only of orgasm,
through that pressure you exert on me.
Torture my senses with teasing touch,
scrape your scruff across my silken surfaces,
rasping breath from rasping scrapes.
Tend to these the wounds you've made upon me,
ligatures enrapture and erupt where bonds of leather,
restrain my to mere feeble struggles against embrace.
And with this wanting I should feel,
your rape and terror of what is yours to steal.