Floating like velvet
in warm summer ruffles
lolling carelessly.

Idle breezes drift,
through open windows
traces of honeysuckle

The lethargic drone
of wasping afternoons
the befuddled trance

The holy divide
of consciousness and cloud.
the hazy glaze.

Drowsy dislocation
slight breath of a sated soul.
The heavy heat.

After planting
before reaping,
vegetable growth.

The waiting time
The moored vessels
limpid in the dog watches

Would you lay
in humming gladness
like motionless oceans?

Fleshing the harvest
the pregnant swell of seed
the ripe fields flushing.

The ****** mountain suffers
The limp and empty rope
Of the falling novice
Like an impertinent scar.

Unruffled by the tension
Of his fingers clinging
She is unresponsive
To his young chattering bravery

Mad with lust and fear he tears
Her undeveloped frock
Buttons of ice rain down
Falling hands grip lose threads of snow

Her beauty needs a wild man
A sensual avalanche
Whose passion would fill her aching reach
With the bright substance of his wayward dreams.

One whose driving force ignores
The pretence of her slopes
And in whose thunderous arms
She learns the dance of hammering drums.

Now her body hugs the ground
Her open arms are wide
for all the weight of climbers
To mount her firm and passive shoulders

So when can I see you again
and when can I see you?
When can I ruffle your vague skirts
into a turmoil of waves
on the flustered reach of your thighs?
When can I lean my breath
against your ear to brush those drums
with my feathering voice?

When again can I kiss
the flagrant mischief of your mouth
or fever my fingers
in the dark arches of your form
I want to be alone with you
in your revelation
and falter at the flesh revealed

Can I undo your clothes and leave
Strewn puddles of patterns
like islands in the carpet seas?
Shall I take you naked
Into the broiling avalanche
Storming down your senses
to feel the brightening rapture
of your thunderous cries?

In a dance of few steps
shall I press my weight against you
and trace your pulsing blood
to find the riot in your nerves
beneath the careful veils
of your long attended beauty?

I seek subversive grace
and dream of your disheveled hair

When?
.
Or if you would prefer
I could take you to the movies

The mind is a formidable foe, but it can be conquered and trained to ones will.

What if I were to say that beauty in itself does not exist,

how can such diversity be fixed as one representation ?

The flower raises a different image to each eye that beholds it,

The moon a different face to whom it beams down on,

a pretty girls smile has greater value perhaps to its recipient,

a lowly ant at its work, one person's fascination,  another's recoil,

We shun the view of our face in the mirror, whilst others smile at its radiance,

The newly born child, more beautiful to its mother than all the wonders of the world, whilst others may only view a wrinkled, writhing, screaming devil,

So the paradigm is such that we cast not judgement on anyone or anything without first considering the perspective of such questioning.

Don't hurt me anymore,
Stop clipping my wings;
Can't you see?
I'm bleeding here in agony...

The torture, the pain,
Why won't you stop?
Just leave me be...
Why can't you see the human in me?