May the Soil Sip Through.
Synesthesia.
A trampoline.
You propell me to a realm of pleasure,
Only to yank me out almost sadisticly.
Your skin here, your skin there,
The grip tightens but words for once,
are no shortcut.
Why deny us this celestial ceremony,
True innocence of the angels;
Purify me in your fantasy dreams,
And release the enveloppe that isn't yours.
A thousand dreams at once,
And but only you to force a single one upon us,
- Why is that so?
The birds have already began singing,
My longing for retreat;
And only the steps of men,
are too loud to hear -
Nor listen.
Days to night and dawn again,
The whispers of the river,
aren't hummed by the hour,
Nor the week.
The slow growing of a branch
Waits for no revokable emotion;
And the stench from beneath,
Penetrates even the most unwilling of blade grass.
~ ~
May the soil sip through,
Those lips of a mountain;
And through those hills allow me,
The rest of the salvaged.
Rescued post-orgasm like a post-humous cherry tree,
Whom when stripped of all expectation,
Blossoms in the unexpected.
The look of an owl wide open -
Pimprenelle with the big eyes.
The tiptoeing of a salamander -
Mistaken for a chameleon.
A symphony of voices so loud,
That even the sunflowers turn around.
Negative capacity
Of the blossoming vine:
'Let go of the sun's supremacy,
Despite the needed ego,
And turn outwards to give in to all,
Even to the smallest snail down below.'
A trampoline.
You propell me to a realm of pleasure,
Only to yank me out almost sadisticly.
Your skin here, your skin there,
The grip tightens but words for once,
are no shortcut.
Why deny us this celestial ceremony,
True innocence of the angels;
Purify me in your fantasy dreams,
And release the enveloppe that isn't yours.
A thousand dreams at once,
And but only you to force a single one upon us,
- Why is that so?
The birds have already began singing,
My longing for retreat;
And only the steps of men,
are too loud to hear -
Nor listen.
Days to night and dawn again,
The whispers of the river,
aren't hummed by the hour,
Nor the week.
The slow growing of a branch
Waits for no revokable emotion;
And the stench from beneath,
Penetrates even the most unwilling of blade grass.
~ ~
May the soil sip through,
Those lips of a mountain;
And through those hills allow me,
The rest of the salvaged.
Rescued post-orgasm like a post-humous cherry tree,
Whom when stripped of all expectation,
Blossoms in the unexpected.
The look of an owl wide open -
Pimprenelle with the big eyes.
The tiptoeing of a salamander -
Mistaken for a chameleon.
A symphony of voices so loud,
That even the sunflowers turn around.
Negative capacity
Of the blossoming vine:
'Let go of the sun's supremacy,
Despite the needed ego,
And turn outwards to give in to all,
Even to the smallest snail down below.'