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Saturday, May 08, 2010

The Evening Lyric

it's the moonlight of your eyes -- I rise
as you watch me reading between the lines
of your body -- a torso of innuendo:
changing its meaning
once its delivery is pitched slow;

it's a meetinghouse, a sexual congress
assembling all the tips of skin
to come to an understanding
of touch: thinly veiled allusions
of fingers like parental advisory stickers,
uncovering the censorship of dress
to reveal a lyrical adulteration,

it's contagion; where words deepen
from crude novelty into losing themselves
in translations of euphemism; we chant
a body of melodies, improvising lyrics,
we cut and paste, mixing the physics
of mind and soul to piece together
our fragments singing with conviction;

it's a spiritual masterpiece of heated diction;
audacious slices of salacious absurdity,
tenacious dancers with a basic instinct's sagacity
moving through risqué territory
of near-ubiquitous mystery; where curious fingers go deep --
they don't always focus on the skin --
sometimes afraid, sometimes courageous
to discover what lies within,
to venture that little bit deeper
to feel beneath the trim, explorers of nature,
or adventure, where they fill their cup
to the brim, overflowing with silken treasure;

it's an all-consuming victory,
crumbling to dust with incomprehensibility
at how you show me the way now without speaking,
at how you pull a train of sinew on tracks
laid down by you; emotional; foolishly sentimental,
majestically maudlin, I become an interpretation
of the body lyric yearning, and like longing
I grow more from within;

it's the pantheon of sexual synonym,
this profound moving of hunger in motion,
where you rise like Venus born again
from the froth of a raging sea to bring me
like flotsam and jetsam to the surface
of my conciousness, after we capsize
subsiding with the tide -- where only
the nonsensical chorus of our breathing
still remains as we fall side by side.

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