Monday, May 18, 2009

Foreign Streets

In foreign streets of drunken lore
I sigh; and sigh a little more...
Struck like William in his final draw
Finished like some Cretaceous dinosaur
And left to decay like any worn-out, legendary
animal will do; to be replaced
by some more adapted carnivore;
Into the ground my withered carcass goes
on unclipped fingers and unclean toes
like some forgotten outlaw of 1888:
into the dusty ground must I lie and sleep:
stuffed inside my grave - sullen and strait:
forgetting how to weep;

Upstairs, the bed it creaks and moans -
like my late grandfather, it wisely groans
for more of what it lacks:
Women's ripe and fruitful tongues - that
follow in tempestuous cracks
of sensuous shrieks and cantankerous tones:

supplying dreams for drunken splendor
and endless nightmares with innocent, tender
farewells and young forget-me-nots...
(hearts that swell and minds that hinder)
lusty seductive plots
thread with indecisive pleas
of lovely, playful, sultry kisses
upon her water-laden eyes -
with tears and tissue and blushing lies
in a dream she silently wishes...

that we would wake without good-byes

From 1997-ish.

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