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
that which is mine,
or yours (forgive me for assuming)
The Machines and Dancing Humus Frames.
At was once and always
Now and beyond
With yer voice
Wed to the whirr whirr hum of
The machines and dancing humus frames.
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.
ahead of time,
behind all imperfections and
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