how can we know where lovers go
or when they take the notion
to stop the flow and try to slow
the rhythm of the ocean.
we cannot seek to reach this peak
or lift above that sea,
we are too weak to mug the meak
of their sincerity.
we are alone, together and free.
and here's some stream of thought (that just so happens to rhyme, kinda)...
loopy arousal.
lofty appraisals.
disabled and taken for granted.
in the eyes of the dead,
instead of the usual red,
we decided on green
to dress the scene.
the sound man listened.
the light man leered.
the chef was cooked.
i'm hooked.
heaved on to me like voyeurism
and sought like publishers.
distasteful? yes.
useful. yes.
knowledgeable? sometimes.
lurid trysts and poltergeists
expounding.
multiplication escapes me.
pen and paper rape me.