Fish Bones
A dream carpet,
Infinite threads of soft tissues;
Like membranes
flying through a night sky.
Deume is a trout,
Swimming in the clouds
his scales glisten
under the moon shine.
To pick a flower or many,
the bouquet or a lonely rose?
Lonesome.
What fear do I have,
to pluck a single plant from its branch?
Deume plunges;
into a sunny afternoon,
and then back again,
into a star-filled universe.
Two fingers running
on your forearm;
Then one sliding down your breasts;
feel of your skin and;
You taste like the sun.
Deume swallowed a fly;
more like devoured it
and it tasted sour.
He ate a butterfly and sang a lullaby,
dreaming of one day ingesting the sky.
I met a singstress in the mist
of a city land line,
she made me listen
to the tricky rain drops
thumping like a xylophone in the night.
One moon and one star,
Deume's smoke and clouds
have singled out the bright,
and that's too bad.
The wind will rise though,
maybe the singstress will blow,
and clean up Deume's wayward
because a clear sky holds more
than a cloud-drapped window.
Between your legs a shooting star,
Heads turn white but
reason won't mature.
Deume will float endlessly,
nourishing your fantasy,
and I will keep waiting,
for you to make a move.
Fish bones.
Infinite threads of soft tissues;
Like membranes
flying through a night sky.
Deume is a trout,
Swimming in the clouds
his scales glisten
under the moon shine.
To pick a flower or many,
the bouquet or a lonely rose?
Lonesome.
What fear do I have,
to pluck a single plant from its branch?
Deume plunges;
into a sunny afternoon,
and then back again,
into a star-filled universe.
Two fingers running
on your forearm;
Then one sliding down your breasts;
feel of your skin and;
You taste like the sun.
Deume swallowed a fly;
more like devoured it
and it tasted sour.
He ate a butterfly and sang a lullaby,
dreaming of one day ingesting the sky.
I met a singstress in the mist
of a city land line,
she made me listen
to the tricky rain drops
thumping like a xylophone in the night.
One moon and one star,
Deume's smoke and clouds
have singled out the bright,
and that's too bad.
The wind will rise though,
maybe the singstress will blow,
and clean up Deume's wayward
because a clear sky holds more
than a cloud-drapped window.
Between your legs a shooting star,
Heads turn white but
reason won't mature.
Deume will float endlessly,
nourishing your fantasy,
and I will keep waiting,
for you to make a move.
Fish bones.