Her Music
Her music is a siren’s melody that stirs my lust within me.
She stirs my desires from my mire’s into chamomile tea.
I poke and **** to understand what I have on hand,
To understand what makes me bend so to that band.
Is it the counterpoint of chest and waist that draws me into delightful harmony?
Is it the peak of each sloping lick that entices my ear and makes it perk up?
Does the dotted staccatos of her face draw me away from the affrightful monotony?
Is it so wrong to try and demand what makes her so desirable to me?
But as I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her contemporary anatomy,
Will I **** the joke of the frog that made her such a fantasy?
As I hope and have and hate and harbor such feeling on her,
Will I find the joke on the frog was always just inside her?
Do I want her music for it stirs my tea,
Or do I want her song for it makes me happy?
Do I poke and **** and prey and pray for her melody to be within me?
Or do I poke and **** and pray and prey upon her for her contemporary anatomy?
Chamomile dreams help lull me to lay,
To avoid the night of thinking about the day,
To once again hear her melody,
And fear her coming into my sleep.
A dream of beauty played by a lyre,
As my tongue snakes the song of a choir,
Bind her music and mine together,
Blind the melody of her forever,
Can she say yes, no,
Could be mine and mine alone,
Don’t take what isn’t mine,
Dissonance grown as harmonize,
Everdream break and eyes align,
Every sin made again mine,
For Eve is not Adams’s rib,
Fraught with the thought of glib,
Got nothing to give,
Giving love to nothing she is,
As the key of C is a simple beauty,
No flats nor sharps or blemishes on the tarp,
With an infinite possibility,
For a finite amount of humanity.
Yet mine is complicated with dismay,
Enharmonic with six symbols,
Found,
Two-ways.
For her melody is C,
The great.
She is my tea,
And strait.
And mine is grey,
The dead.
A pale sway,
Of dread.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if 7th can be rounded.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate the music,
I wonder if my 7ths are rounded.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I wonder if tea dreams.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and love her music,
I dream about a new key.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
I wonder if I’m right.
As I poke and **** and pray and prey and hope and have and hate and hate and love her,
What if I’m not right?
Dedicated to Her, the music of my fantasies and dreams
