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Crimson sight
Empty pockets, odd desire
2017-08-17
Under the neon light a hors d’oeuvre stands,
Two lamps ahead the gorgeous female curving,
Brings up the predator to my shadow’s hands
Willing to pick them both in a bowl of stew.
Thirty paces a lean equestrian beauty
Smiles to my Satie themed steps
Inducing my popping heart to a compasso
Of desire, joy and despair,
She, altive with her red hair
Attends my invitation with cautious stare.
The hands in my pockets in a forceful fist
The mind full of crimson desire mist,
So I say to her after embrace my shoulders:
Your shape may love my tender desire
Your pose can carry my demure flame
Although my inner beast I cannot tame
So I’ll never will ask your name
Nor in your breasts turn the lights on
Our romance is a joy that will not be.
So I praise your gesture but must move on.
She answered in a soft casual tone:
All night here I stand alone in the halo,
Of a light I bear as scars in my cheekbone
Of slaps and other violent attacks.
So even if you don’t put food on my table
I am glad with your words, even being sad.
Go on at your staccato and may we meet
Both mad and in an outrageous rage
To dissipate in voluptuous love at this stage.
This stage where wanderers spin their personas in an endless maze.
Hands returning to the forever empty pockets
I am glad she didn’t have to see the holes in my sockets,
Amid the beggars embroidered cloths.
It is what it is whether we are here or not,
But one day, after the blaze, we will smoke a thoughtful pot,
And lose a few words on the importance of human touch.
The threshold at the edge is really there?
Or an undifferentiated surface dwarfs the spirit,
So we lay steps and boundaries to feed the curiosity
And sustent a myth of evolution
Improving skills.
Mere unsatisfied Panzas creating Quixotesques Windmills
To pretenciously test our skills
