Mad Wimmins Whims

Maybe.

the voices calling, coming.

shove 'em, bid on 'em.

take cognizance of a disquiet discomfort

always wanting to crawl upon my bed.

yet this sugary

and luscious

derangement

that which is mine,

or hers,

or yours (forgive me for assuming)

adequately tainting

haunting

maybe.

The Machines and Dancing Humus Frames.

Closed sight,

I gazed

At was once and always

Captivating me.

Soothe me.

Now and beyond

With yer voice

Wed to the whirr whirr hum of

The machines and dancing humus frames.

Seize (d).

Take heed of each grip.

As I chase affection and

Cuddle at yer days and nights

Kindling this rapture

Of the unknown

That is ours.

 When we were never alone.

And I always thought of you.

Often as a daydream during midday or violence on mayday.

Living, surviving and existence.

BUT YOU ARE AS FRAGILE AS YOU ARE.

Cannot be move by touch

Or be threatened by a sharp gaze.

Your stillness haunts the madness within that so-called “make love”

And all I can ask, and all I e’er ask---

HOW MUCH MORE TIME DO WE HAVE?

And all we can do is to keep on LYING.

WE LIE.

ahead of time,

behind all imperfections and

impossibilities

imbued to us.

waiting for something

which will not come,

or hasn’t come,

OR WILL NEVER COME AT ALL.

we hold on with rage.

with anger and shame.

believing hurting will ease the pain.

holding each other and ne’er letting go…

not noticing how this holding have crushed

OUR EXISTENCE.

and

LYING STILL.