Sometimes, quite times
The swinging pendulum
and rivers running
Blood rushing
Under the skin, growing hard
Rough. Marked. Tough scars.
These are the life lines
We write about, talk about
Show others, one another
The life lines
Of time, ticking time
Ticking by.
A story, known only
By the bearer, the wearer
The perfect thing,
Before the first years
Perfect skin
Soft, gentle
A trip, a stumble,
A cut, a burn
We accept, unchangeable
This harsh contrast
And there comes the pain
Onto oneself, or
A gift from another
Received
Always remembered
When it marks,
Perfect skin, now only
A perfect memory
We remember the way
It used to be, before
the line was made
The swinging pendulum
And the rushing river, crossed
Sometimes, quiet times
We think of all we’ve lost.
The Lyrical Goddess
With her sure-hand
Right hand
Drew upon the musings
Of a dark thought
A dark passage
Could describe the pain
A battalion of words
Onward marching, marching
Carrying the flag, high
Only now, seems feeble
The fight
Sapped and sucked from her being
No meaning
Only a plight
Of a forgotten time
Happy woman
Without a reason
To write.
I am re-acquainted with an old lover. Her name is Valencia and she throbs under my fingers as I gingerly find my rhythm and remember the places I touched her once before. I need to pitch it to her. It’s been a long time since we were united and her nylon slips out of key quickly. But oh, the memories are coming flooding back. The tears, the hypnotic sessions, the dreams we shared together. Fuck I have missed this; the way she feels on my arms, under my fingers. The way she responds in kind. And she is beautiful. How wrong that I should keep her locked away from the world. Time to start singing again.