Sophie sits quietly, soaking in the sounds. This Jazz club suits her perfectly, As she swallows spirituous rounds. The music is hot, with Latin-flair, and Pulsing, staccato, percussive drive. The air on her shoulders is moist In this Parisian summer jive. Sophie tastes the twilight culture, She lives for the buzz. She won't accept the ordinary, she Vibrates with bohemian blood! She loves her music live in her Sultry summer jive.
Memory passes like a bus Spirit passes like a ghost Aura disappears like a dream Smiles bend like a will
Bohemians cry out and about, losing Their sanity as passions flush like Clogged sewage or drug busts, replaced with, Dare I say, growing up. No deals Selling songs to parents or art to perverts, Poems to lovers and rants about ex's Good Reapers thresh the rapid seeds Right before it's not.
Deep in wood’s twig embrace She lies beneath the leaf tessellation Her hollow skull and hollow chest are friends with the burning winds She is hallowed in her sloping waist With child
She is mother bony Woman with skinless face She is grinless For her jaw was stolen in ages past Yet she is blessed with child Her middle is heavy with boundless boy
A boy fated To be ******* Emperor Tyrant King To be lord of the shattered lands and even their scattered men Destined to be crowned in fragments of skulls and silky fabric reds He shall mate with fire Be father of arson spawn His face will be carved in Mammon’s silver toys
He will never be forgotten by any of history’s tedious scribes Yet first he must be born
Now the winds are chanting They push at her pudgy waist They are chanting for the birth of the emperor ******* king They desire the tyrant They are the slaves of God For they are catalysts that mold the shapes of futures’ lords They will sing triumphant When he is pushed through dusty hips They will congratulate their oldest and most silent friend
He is birthed with great force The spit of cadaverous womb Crying shrieks in the forest No one living to clean him
By spirits’ force he is taught To eat the last of mother’s skin To grow to be the friend of the whispering burning winds
He shall grow into great beast With strength to wield the lance He will enter the kingdoms of men Appearing as a wild God
While he is shaping his role His mother will often laugh Ever since he left her Her body was never again the same
comely, maybe but not beautiful my features are as round as vowels and I carry the moon in my hips I am an unpolished beauty smooth pebbles resting at the bottom of a cold clear stream with an empty purse imagination my only currency
in this world I am a shrinking violet occasionally a rose february-white caught in your button-loop long-stemmed red roses stalk runways hollywood bombshells are bubbly as champagne and full of flesh and light
but *** sans love is still an empty bathtub whatever happened to pin-up girls long cigarette holders and muted photographs? I am distorted in the fish-eye view of the modern lens
in my fantasies I am no longer sand and loam I glow like a tall slim candle though I am often numb and dumb and my girls are as absent as long lost unicorns I am the bohemian princess
I travel through foreign lands clothed in exotic costume a jewelled headdress, and indian pyjamas coloured sapphire, turquoise and cayenne-red my feet are near bare and my hippie hair is a mass of blonde curls
I take a sojourn in southern california warm desert air soft against my skin I surf in the salty sea held buoyant by the waves a sunset stains the sky tangerine the palm trees black against the orange light click teasingly in the breeze
"In My Fantasies" can be found in my book "Blood for Honey", available at Lulu.com and Amazon.