Dances Around Fences
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Transcript of Dances Around Fences
Court Rooms and Gentlemen
Heavy boots scuffling down the sand path.Sulked shoulders in agony, all leading to the camp. The camp where they buried mercy. Hundred faces all flushed out of blood A thousand fingers bony and starved like soldiers left to rescue. The rescue that murdered mercy.
The past in their unspoken memories, unhinging, clinging, drastically illustrious. Leaving no trace of dignity, they sat side by side in utter silence. The cold air circulating the wood cabinets and worn out desks, sliding through their skin traumatized the eventuality of sweaty respect. The present a faux pas, the present an ultimatum.
Restless night, cradling moon and spotty twilight sky. Lovers promised to spend each other to exploit the art of caressing. They never made it to first phase. Knuckles in fists went up guts, and women lay bleeding weeping. The men embarrassed, the men no longer gentlemen. The short lived life of high expectations in unborn children seized.
Tried and fried, the many lives of those cruel. The men, the women, the children in blood maroon. Today the trial goes on and on, no one's faced up to brutalities humming alone. The badged monsters of yesterday, the orphans of today, the scare crows of tomorrow sipping wine and characterizing their false splendour while in trials lost time lies dispensed.
Honey WaterGreed, creed, race, jump through gallop with pride. The beer belly exists for a reason. Storing up for the good days while facing grim town. Here is a toast to fresh memories and those stone cold. Soon, when the night rocks the block in my head will pop slowly releasing an aphrodisiac. Ego satisfaction in the fireplace.Is the glass half full or half empty? Neither or none I say! to catch the wagon down south. The gates of heaven, I never pictured so crowded. With clergyman and nurses ambulances and police. The taut accent, the loose chin, the glasses that sit only on the rim far below the bridge. A heaven full of bridges, willows and ducks... Quack quack! Quick, quick I must run away. Grim town and icy clouds it is, where it's neither or none. I only went far to come close.
Snapshot gallery, on acqua del miele.
The Might of the Knight This door, opens from space into void.This key, turns a lock from outside in.This room, rattles me to where I hadn't been.This hill, steep, green bearded transforms,arched, bent backwards, into a cucumber.The shadow of your back in the nightsloped and heavy like this hill. Fir and conifers stuck in my hair,unlike you; a clean leaf.You're soap for your soul, hence mine. This step, one inch closer to youthan my feet to the ground.This hill lying in your irisfestering, pestering my only smirk.Their dry dry dry heartwith us,now beating against the windin the unity of this abandoned log.This door, this lock opensthe canals of slumbersome days.In void and space, for me to return to me.
Philandering Crystals I hid it like a miracle, thenfound it was time to set it free.It came, gently, tapping its feet on arid dust,one by one, step by step.I covered it with mud and slugs,not a nice place to live, but certainly shelter.It sighed, I took its hand,so no one would be tempted, to steal the shine.I swallowed it and a big gulp it was, too.Gluck, gluck, gluck...I cleared my throatto a smooth lining and toned to mute;for a dash or two, then crumbled to crumbs.Whence, I fell into the gapof dirty old pragmatism, bleached.Broke my neck, knee and treefloating ashore, dried to sea salt.
Maestros Midnight Ensemble With that whip in your pupilsI went mad, kissing your satin curves.You shone and rose, to knowwhat I could be, then you sank,retrieved your tearsand wiped mine.I find that my words lose essence,in your smashing whip.I gather them to bottle them up,and promise never to linger:may be thats the way.Certain paths and embracing lossin your tomorrow, in mine doubtthat itches; waiting for your fingers to scratch.I am all here and you aresomewhere I cant define. When I go,once I go will you look back?Free yourself from the slap.You know Ill be gone soon.Tires will roll on wet dripping asphalt,and one bag will do me,you know that, too.Ill be one with the clouds.With that whip in your pupils,I will be dreaming, in golden liqueur. Youre searching Im telling .Simple answers, in no more rhymes.Come to the clouds soon,once Ive left. Have me delusional, again.
Maestro; Can and Does
Maestro can't run from this heart,he is troubled and serene.My maestro is fresh,slender as grass. My grass is at the bottom of the ocean,his is on some random mountain.I sweat the nights in his breath lackingon the back of my neck.My shoulder blade, a swordon the mattress.His blades of thrusting fearare coming in, just as monsoon.I am dreading to be flushed past the rivers of seconded minutes.Maestro is gentle and kindhe is sad and lonesome,though he has his midnight melancholyto drop him off at his bed,and me a more dangerous feel.My Maestro is scared,because he doesn't knowmy bruises can't heal,without his finger prints. He fears for he has burnt in fires,and has found no wiresto last his expensive buyers,of whom all know the value of gold,silver and the like. I know none of what he imagines,but I am one with him;love takes the shape of the lovedas thoughts mingle in their own twinkle. I can't run from my Maestro,like Tinkle Bell, I fight off envyand that nautica of caught philandro.I await him in the seas, the sands,the forests, the caves, the castles, the walls, the sheets, the boars of my desires.My Maestro knows his way, thoughlaughs my way too. I wonder at the past glass of his shattered expectations and crave him ever more.My Maestro, will bathe in fragrant waterwith meand as I do in him;the gap between our doors will meetto an absolute line of highness, pure as the whitest grind.The founded fears will yell louderin the ache of his muscles.My Maestro, for tonight, tomorrow andthe following week to last a century.
Blue, My GhostI'm on feather smoke clouds,you are far behind, far below.In my mind your marshmallow lips smile in tears.You embrace the bottle from its neck. I seek warmth in the black red tumbler. A lonely soul I have come to be, in the corridors of this spilling vessel. The horizon is empty,there is a fine line between the glass blueand the mist white.
Your skin, pale as silvershining, I seek seek seek youin all lines of the earth. Beautiful ghost, don't you vanish,or be erased by the hand thatshaped you, loved you, made you!I listen to the opera,and I listen to me, I listen to jet engines.In nightmares I feel safe as a tiger,for you will see soon there is a fine linebetween glass blue and mist white. I have come to cyan skies and gold mounts of jungle hills. There is only a thin veil between me and you and not miles and miles of prayer. My blue ghost,I close my eyesand there you are splendidly lostwith that scar on your eyebrow;two inches deep a thousand kisses weep. You're driving across the countrywith a knife in my heart.
I am only a thin veil away,come and cover up my sinswith your naked skin. Come and touch my goose bumps with yours, in salute for the sun.
Imaginary cat,brown eyes, white fur.Her name, Pat. She cooks and bakesand when I come backconverses Nietzsche and Sartre.Likes to drink Cabernet.She smokes misty cigarsso passes me one, too. Wears scarlet lip stick.When we go on a night out, with music loudshe hums Nina Simone, she recites Neruda.Likes medium-rare steak,eats like an eagle.Imaginary friend,out dining with Kant and laterout seducing Hepburn.She sips zealous fluidfrom her breasts and lips.My imaginary cat,everyone called Pat.Now I call her, fat. And now she knows,why the street snows.Pat, the cat.No longer, pet the cat. Imaginary glass and conversation,elapsed.
Wipes and cleans, she reeks of bleach and soap.Her timid weak hair,the same with her scrub brush. Once too dirty, twice far too sparkling. Her soul needs cleansing,so she chooses crockery to disinfect. There is a little pore in her, open to suggestionand in me too a sprinkle of hope. Nevertheless, she cleans and oh, how she does.
A manicure and a pedicure for the queen,and a large black bin bag full of nails,so she doesn't have to clean at all.She rips herself, she collects dust.She reeks of soap, she has no breath. Sweat lips and armpits.Oh, how I watch her somewhere downon this earth slowly sliding by. No more bodies, no more souls,no such thing as a clean slate, a clean plate,a clean sheet, a frigid life!Can't anyone hear this cracking?
Her hands, her knuckles,her heart...A blossom broken matador,beaten on the hippodrome,on hot ground trailing with dross. She is always at a loss. The lies of her life, born from pink one'sor some others blue cons. She uses a toothbrush, and a random toothpick to stay alive.I slumber, as she strives.On her knees, with a million antscrawling through her skin,she is my adorable Mademoiselle Merry,she is my first Eve. How I wonder who she is,besides her spray starch and stinking polish. When all goes to waste,she is my four leaf clover.Yesterday she fell, doing the laundryand a coin dropped, sharp on its side.She is my wicked witch, bleached and dirty.I am a due curse, waiting in a bibliotheque.
The dawn came upon uslike an umbrella tucking the night.We lay in our thoughts and thought, slipping out...
Botticelli's angels.Only dark as red wineor a Java bean, without the grace of a sylph.
The words.Like mouth music from heaven or hell,on nipples marbleand buttocks arctic when spruce.
Recreating human beauty.In an angel cagederect from desire,devout to leachy frenzy.
The clumsy existence of stars.Those that descend hastilyand fall close to flesh;phosphorescent, pubescent.
So amidst these parodies,we shared only a sw