The Wanton Silk

*Image found HERE

The Wanton Silk

 

Concern eats away at me;

We fumble down the loom

for space.

With no laundry line

between everything and nothing,

my hair wants to sprawl

on your sun-lit bed

like piss does on snow.

 

In the cross-hair

the Aquarian shakes

with the pitcher;

it rains in droves,

like bogey jingles;

there, alive, then gone.

 

It is easier

when fiddling with the frequency.

It’s pronounced timid,

to grab as many tomatoes

as my hands can carry

and leave the tender

outraged

for he did not pick and measure

for me.

I think of your face,

but when asked what ails me

I say

“Dandelions”.

 

I worry you will

uninvent

the molecules, the telephone, my voices;

my heart beyond the means

of blood pump

which keeps my body going.

Loving with profanity

is yelling loudly,

like a cricket;

neurosis in detention 

with her eye

peeling history books

like a bored child would

love a freshly painted wall.

 

It will all keep going;

new trees whisper by the brook,

you make me the kind of blue

a sailor would want

to swivel in a bottle;

the bird in my windowsill

just had babies.

Pruned wastelands rot away nameless.

Should it be so?

The meadows are vomiting

colourful flowers;

the songs of the drunktards

about somebody else;

Please, don’t go.