Aw yeah, I fancy her, she's fancy, man
I'd love to get them fancy pants
on the floor like a fancy dance
the Spanish ones about lust and romance
I haven't got a chance
feeling chancey man
She's looking over, getting glancey, man
raised the ante up, I'm real antsy, man
She put me in a trance, real trancey, man
I can hardly stand up, need a stand-in, man
can't hardly talk, and she's chatty, man
telling me about her long term plans
all I want is to feel her arms
wrapped round me like an army of plants

once as a secret she confessed
she'd like to know whose birth would be her death

i like these kinds of thoughts too
back when i was in school
i was shocked by the phrase i passed by
'never shall those born to crawl, learn to fly'

and ever since i've tried to figure out
such and such
and why those born to fly
crawl so much

she wanted my soul


so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:

who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing *you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition

she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays,  to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!

they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but *raucous untamable invisible desire

she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return

so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up

she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!

the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety

give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself

if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine

She is night and day
She will run and play
She is confused and lost
But she knows the cost
For when all is said and done
She is the only one
Who will give it her all
Even knowing she will fall
Because who’s to say
What’s beyond the archway
Of fear and love
Of what you’re free of
To be standing halfway
Between what you can and may
Is a lost path to walk
Don’t be so shocked
When you find it alone
You have always known
It would turn out this way