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clark-davis-hitchensPoems
My Moonlight archipelago, my escape I approach the buttress of boredom better known as your doorstep I pull you in... your hair stretches from clenched fingers and what follows down to the feel of my fingertips is religious in nature under a broken blue street lights, i cradle inward, immersed now in infinite youth of lust... a flash of light... street lamps lit now a Coca Cola Red ... the color plays, a chromatic cinema fills through your follicles I spin you away momentarily and envy my shadow now pressing upon you we are Cathars, heuristic heretics, learning love through touch in a hate filled land (the pesky conformity of late-stage Western Civilization) still Your ether look absolves me of this world’s sins beam raw: render quiet: Baptize me in the esoteric and verbose stares, the *** is drawn on your lips, so mouthy, but saying nothing inside the long Chaplin silence, you vacillate and I’m vacant my voice removed spent, empty in the Valentino deadpan stares  Post Script: The gaze gave conversations: conversions still silent in her looks, a living Bible's worth of words in those sacred scripture holy eyes.
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Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
Your Hair Stretches
My Moonlight archipelago, my escape I approach the buttress of boredom better known as your doorstep I pull you in... your hair stretches from clenched fingers and what follows down to the feel of my fingertips is religious in nature under a broken blue street lights, i cradle inward, immersed now in infinite youth of lust... a flash of light... street lamps lit now a Coca Cola Red ... the color plays, a chromatic cinema fills through your follicles I spin you away momentarily and envy my shadow now pressing upon you we are Cathars, heuristic heretics, learning love through touch in a hate filled land (the pesky conformity of late-stage Western Civilization) still Your ether look absolves me of this world’s sins beam raw: render quiet: Baptize me in the esoteric and verbose stares, the *** is drawn on your lips, so mouthy, but saying nothing inside the long Chaplin silence, you vacillate and I’m vacant my voice removed spent, empty in the Valentino deadpan stares  Post Script: The gaze gave conversations: conversions still silent in her looks, a living Bible's worth of words in those sacred scripture holy eyes.
clark-davis-hitchens
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clark-davis-hitchens
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Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
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