god pity me whom(god distinctly has)
the weightless svelte drifting ****** feather
of your shall i say body?follows
truly through a dribbling moan of jazz

whose arched occasional stepped youth swallows
curvingly the keeness of my hips;
or,your first twitch of crisp boy flesh dips
my height in a firm fragile stinging weather,

(breathless with sharp necessary lips)kid

female cracksman of the nifty,ruffian-rogue,
laughing body with wise ******* half-grown,
lisping flesh quick to thread the fattish drone
of I Want a Doll,
                          wispish-agile feet with slid
steps parting the tousle of saxophonic brogue.

In the eye where I am
where there's peace,(so to speak)
I take out the album which I carry in a telegram and in those few stunted phrases,
my heart again blazes with desire,full of fire and of want.

This is punishment for me and I see retribution in these lines,
times though be far are near as I wear out my eyeglass making pass after pass at the words on the clipped sheet in my hand,
telegram and the full of memory man and the eye carries me on to the storm that levels all in its path,
I shall weep for this no more,bring the winds and let them bore through me and the rains to swallow my tears unshed.
I am led like the goat to the pipers of Pan.

I am the telegram becoming the man and the album's a plan to destroy me,though the Devil employs many vices it seems that nothing is fixed and there's a swirling of voices which melt into one,(am i to be that one?)
This saxophonic cacophony within which I am caught teaches me, what once before I was taught,
I'm a prisoner in the dock and the black cap is on and the 'beak' up ahead says,'you're going to swing John'
And the beggars and tramps and those bums that you meet on the islands of midnight where the ne'er do well greets you with,'lend me a dime' all make some time to come to the show where I swing to and fro and...look at my face all bloated and blue,
(it's only make up,but what can I do,poor ******* I am)
and the eye winks at me,winks at me as if I could see the joke in this,it is funny though, that one feels so tall as the trapdoor opens and you begin the fall
but then it's snap, crackle and pop
full stop
dead end.
telegram sent,

I'm going home.
stop.
end.

Twinkling golden tealights, in a saxophonic haze,
Champagne, cocktail dress,
A whirling, dancing maze.

Outside on the terrace, in the dark and silent night,
Black suit, green dress,
Melding in the moonlight.

Far away shines the moon, lone and quiet still,
Clouded face, wavering,
Watching balcony sill.

The scintillating tunes trip on, a merry-go-round of tracks,
Hot night, collared shirts,
Stick to dampened backs.

Green-grey smoke drifts easily, from curling moustached lips,
A cuff-linked hand, a bubbling scream,
She lies within his grip.

The green silk dress rips gently, on vined terrace wall,
A prayerful glimpse, lunar eclipse,
Succumbs and starts to fall.

The black suit man stands over, to the strains of 'Love knows best'.
Yet a glaring moonbeam stops him,
Its point upon his chest.

Then in the light of hidden truth, his rash resolve resides,
A guilty conscience, grey not black,
He runs, he slinks, he hides.

And turning gently to the form which cowered on the floor,
A face so sweet, so far away,
The moon has seen before.

It cloaks her gently in its light, and shyly hides its face,
Breathing slowly, as in sleep,
She drifts from time to space.

Then rising like the sun in the dreamings of the moon,
A Venus, white and shining still.
She wakens from her swoon.

And hurrying, she hastes inside, to a wheeling mindless world.
She runs from light, her; light's own hope,
A dream newly unfurled.

But, behind a moonbeam spindles, and on its gentle loom,
Are hung the lonely whispers,
Of the love-song of the moon.