A blank sky starts out
and just like that
like embers flicking
popping
rising
from a camp fire
a Universe is on fire
holding hands
twisting fingertips
underneath precious metals
of an Earth
for the sake of intimacy
on black heels
in a month
like August
like seductive and
sweet
she is a golden pear
dangling fresh in the night air
all men have met her
at some point
she becomes bitter
after the picking
after the tasting
after familiarity increases
No pillow comes without residue.
At our age, blessings come in small forms…
hands cradled together,
words buried in sweet breath,
unconditional nights,
uncontrolled…..
Tell me about your exploration, about
fingertips trickling down
courage….
spines do not break easily, do they?
I met you today,
I see your influence and result,
you probably know
that I see through blue eyes,
saturated by the way your fingertips move.
Oh God! I am not hollow!!
All this time I have been lacking parts,
I have not. My bones and intestines
and muscles
and heart are curled in stainless steel.
These inside pieces are flexing against metal,
but I have been watching while
little and big hands tick around the clock.
It is morning, my crusty eyes meet the sun.
My hand brings water and poison to
meet my tongue,
then suddenly night grips me and we dim,
in warm embrace we rest.
I am with baggage and a stamp, on my way
to mirror a bride,
or a student,
or just “myself”,
without a key,
or a book,
or a groom.
It is morning and my crusty eyes meet the
birds swimming in last night’s weather.
My hand burns from last night’s torture
and brings poison to my tongue,
then suddenly, night wraps its
pretty, long legs around me and we rest.
Where have I been recently?
Where do I want to go?
To a mirror, without a groom?
To a classroom, without a book?
To my “self”, without a key?
It is morning and my crusty eyes greet me.
My hands sting with reality as I rub last night
out. I have unrestricted bones and muscle,
and poison,
and poison,
and poison.
I hope this is my face when I die.
Like the other girls’
before they shut their eyes.
Sitting on the porcelain floor,
cold water pouring
over my cold blue body.
It is here,
but my eyes say otherwise.
They say that
I am sitting on top of a casket,
black masked,
tipped back, gin in hand,
sitting on top of love’s old ashes.
Sit next to me,
sit with me here,
a swig for you and more for fear.
Drink with me,
next to me here.
I laugh under black hair balls,
teasing your philosophy,
you make me giggle,
we jump off this old casket and
run, free through the wild,
free through the riddle,
through the bees,
and temptation, and value!
We run away from mascara
smears in water,
away from wrinkled finger prints
and bothered heels,
away from this face,
this face that I hope is mine when I die,
smeared with you,
in a forest,
on a casket,
running free, through the bees,
away from life.
Oh, I have been kept,
too long
refrigerated.
My tongue itches for links of
Vienna, a
swallow of
germ juice. Emptiness is
a plague,
a manic,
internal,
thirst.
My crossed legs quiver
on cue at
red storms
ice score
over a Ranger Hound. Ah!
What a hallucination
I devour!
A deserving,
choice
New York Strip
with liquor lips
and packing hands.
Dear Desire, would craving be
craved if
bark met
bark even once??
If so, I’ll keep the craving and
you can
keep the steak.
From the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,
where productions
remain silent but still produce,
where every rehearsed act
plays on, as if
unrehearsed.
Nobody would know the difference unless
they were watching
from the tip-top
of the towering
fortress,
the place that the universe bends for,
dances for,
multiplies for.
Once, a painted woman sat upon
the tower,
supreme and hungry,
watching
different casts perform…
her muse!
She was born with a gift.
An Eye!
A Wandering Eye!
At her command, her left eye would jump
out of its socket
on hunt
as the hungry painted woman
wished.
The Eye knew not the exact
silage, but
there were markings,
specifics, that the Eye knew to watch for.
The painted woman waited,
high in the clouds,
imposing on conversation
between wind
and
weather….
waiting.
Soon, her Wandering Eye would
return
with her meal –
soldiers, fighters,
carpenters,
shaman,
each had a purpose.
The painted woman would accept her
prey, swallowing them completely
in to
herself,
writhing them in and out of consumption,
pulling them deep into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!
She touched
and kissed
and drooled on
each of their gifts
using each
as her very own until
she was
spent.
Then, she would take her lust-probing eye and
retire,
leaving nothing of
her pillage behind!!
A snake,
overflowing
with lasciviousness!
One day, the brushed lady
was brought a tender
slice of
musician, with sad,
blue diamonds sparkling so bright
that when she saw her reflection
in them,
her left gift, was
immediately calcified,
a vegetable!
Useless!
She barely noticed!
They stood together at the tip-top
of the towering fortress,
oblivious to
acts,
actors,
and
actresses.
All the muse she needed stood
beside her, with a box of suffering chocolates
and rust roses,
begging
her
for consumption! On his knees he
pleaded for
use!
Baffled by his strange request, she conformed to
habit.
The painted woman accepted her
prey, swallowing him completely
in,
writhing his body in and out of her consumption,
pulling him deep, deeper into
digestion, her stomach
aching for more,
more, more!
She touched his gifts,
gently kissed his gifts
caressed each gift as if it were her own
until
the bewitching young
musician was spent, sleeping inside her body.
This had never happened before.
She knew “withdraw”
not “succumb”.
How dare he retire without her!
Leaving her here,
alone,
on the tip-top of a towering
fortress without
her only friend,
her tool!
She panicked when the script
started
in the world below. Its silence
sounded different
somehow.
Heartsick.
At that moment, the lady,
standing at the tip-top of the towering fortress
flung herself
from the security of the towers’ height,
diving to join
the world below!
My Lord,
I know you in language,
not
by your fingertips,
or your tongue,
or your eyes,
or your voice,
or heavy petting,
or lip smacking.
I do not know the scent of your release,
or the heaviness of your desire,
or the longing in your sighs,
or the length of your reach.
I do not know your grip,
your push,
your gasp for a breath,
your touch,
your taste,
your hunger.
My Lord,
I know you in vocabulary,
in depiction.
I know you in daydream
where
I have felt your limit,
where I have forfeited myself
in the aroma
of your pleasure,
where I have met you at the top
of the mountain,
the highest peak,
where we have gasped for air
together,
fingers entwined,
legs braided,
excreting deliquescent
adoration.
My Lord,
I speak in daydream,
lost in lust language
where I know you.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 