If she were ever to walk
I'd give her fingers and lanterns to taste
Yet this is not time to bathe
I seize the day by preaching danger
by giving entrails their due contortions
Heavens arise
let the dreams figure their own apprentices
give the clarinet-voiced whips more pleasure
Musings
prayers multiplied, copied
en masse
formal appeasals, satisfy my breathren
satisfy my explorations
And if the Eastern mud ever becomes intolerable
shoots about plays
of eager dismissals
she will abide to hand back my wrenches
No cause for affirmation
the actions remain detrimental
Satisfy me, for fuck sake
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
It's kinda a calling out on myself, saying that I should be more active in creating something rather than hoping for it. I think that is a rather common aspect of human nature, yet perhaps understanding that isn't.
ReplyDeleteSo the "she," I guess, is a muse, and instead of following her, I'm going to get into the ground and get dirty. But then, I kinda start to mock the muse and end up needing her again. Hmmm.
Something like that.