Bump,thump,bump,thump.... the bass cases shake and quake  
Secreting heat, my skin blushes, that rush of a new secret crush.
She passes and her scent renders all around helpless.
The DJ's plush talons tow and myre you soul's wires.  
Seeping through, the beak crushing your conscience,  
falling, sleep down, the sound grounds you.  
Sowing the seeds of desire on the stone below.  
Called by the thumping, bumping beat,  
You jump from your seat into a market of meat, a sea of shifting feet.  
10,000 lights spin like sugar bright.  
Blood fuels your feet,  
feats of flight,  
blurs of sight.  
Spinning like cotton candy with all your might.  
Body overheating, heart overbeating, grains of lust over seeding.  
Your scars begin to heal as glassy eyes not blue appeal to your "at first sight" senses.  
Senses slow there motion to primal, tingling too much,  
not too much to touch, no sting as such.  
Such a blissful kiss t'would be from she before thee.  
Snip the wire.  
Feed the desire.  
The need grows to fan passion fire.  
The potent scent of dripping skin steams up like the devotional incline of nine combined love potions.  
Love, as real love, survives as only a notion in this moving motion of lust's contrived plot...  
But to feel alive, even for a moment,  
love's emotion fails... drawing bust to the ever opulent opponent of lust;  
a proponent to disguise the potent demise of the heart's conscious component.  
Gas and smoke blows.  
Beats high and low.  
The dancing mass of suppressed woes ebbs and flows,  
capturing the seconds, snatching your essence, rapturing your ethics.  
Feeding the peak you seek, heart weak, roaring soul silenced to squeak.  
Waning away your stay with the sweating sea of swing and sway leaves you adrift.  
The waves of the DJ begin to hammer you into enamerment  
Did this quaking wake the sober state of your forsakenness?  
That complaicent stained vacant place aching to be filled.  
A painful, dizzying blood rush floods your mind and muck the feeling first struck secret love crush  
Were the judgment-blurring thoughts occurring so alluring? They fought off pure thoughts sought before she heart-stopped me.  
In light of a moment caught, wrought with knots of naughty thoughts.  
Light and sound and the thumping, bumping ground drown your bounds. 
No more, no more. 
"Now I remember" internally sounds, profound rebounds. 
Lore from before when the last passing blue-eyed leggy lass tore the door off your soul's core.  
No more, no more.  
The crush becomes dust. You become stone.  
Cut to the bone. No seed will be sewn.
You face the floor and breathe. alone.
  
 "Cameo Theater South Beach"   
R. Craig David-Copyright 1995

They once loved him
and soon tied their whim
but forsakenness spurned so  
early to tender their mulberry
that a night as bold in toe
where a fleece of whiten civility
thus foretold their lamb.

Decadence,
Indulgence,
Celebration,
Euphoria.

Desolation,
Emptin­ess,
Forsakenness,
Pain.

"you cannot hide from world"
he says:
"the world is everywhere"

between million colored bunches
under colored boundless sky
there you lay behind your fences
too afraid to cross it by
your heart, is in chains
and not because your wilderness
but because of your faded blaze.

and, in desert, where you lay
you're alone, as if you say
all this sand is lonely too
made from one
no more than two.

here you blame
your eternal forsakenness
and you have drown
the sand forgiveness.
you're alone, but maybe why?
in this coldness, desert dry
where your stain's beneath its glamour
and your soul stretched by behaviour.

and the world it's made of sand
fulfilled by her baked ground
where you lay behind your garden
blaming her for your own scandal.

so you see
the boundless desert
with its sand,
outstretched and
feeling its bay.
but instead
of carrying mountains
when he knows that he shall fail,
he is here,
approaching cereals,
making love
and endless sail.

and the sorrow you have made
hiding just behind your fence
you should know that you shall fade
if you'll still lay in your own trance.

intentions are breaking their

backs while paving hellish paths.

the best of not saying at the height

of meaning, with no where to go.

even too final for the last push.

intersecting like crosses with

light speed visions of forsakenness.

wrought with the motions of what

is promised to pass--but does not.

left with the inability to sit with

breath, nor the poems it generates.

and I spend so much time
together. We rise like a flower in the morning
and shower. Sing of butterfly wings
and what this day could bring. Could it be

something new, like Cinderella’s shoe? Sometimes
we argue about our forsakenness. And my friend
loneliness hits me over the head with this. She says
“you got me” why do you need anyone else? I tell her

sometimes it’s nice to step outside myself. Then she pours
me a long cool drink so I don’t think of anything
she has to say. I wash it down with a frown and think
tomorrow’ll be a better day.