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Stumblewood, a poem
I Stumble, Onward
Aghast, this deeply in the dark,
who could find that stream of clarity
that light, once again?
I am the muttering Rockefeller
of this room,
but what good is that when
all my words fly the wind?
A mean game of chess, yes,
I can do that-
but when your belly is soft
and proffered, I am mute.
Sparrow, swallow in the eaves,
your gangs come to me,
twittering my necessary alms...
But, this part is hidden-
my lover and his desires,
Does it go something like this?
My ropes of red hair fall on your lips.
I writhe, a pale ghost, enlivened by desire?
I coil lovingly down your neck, your
chest, your penis? Now I speak another
language altogether, one of rythym and lips
tainted with learned aconitum,
do not move- I would find that discordant,
the only moment I do not wish
you to move...
I whip my hair on your sweating skin,
skyclad, we are set free to disolve,
devolve into primative heirarches-
you the rutting bull,
I the fecund hind...
Ummm, your velvet skin cries for
an answer, and I can only reply,
But gore another!