"postures" poems
Hazy outlines familiar faces
Echoes of familiar places
Captured moments long forgotten
Honesty in words unspoken
A fleeting smile unguarded eyes
Truth beneath the surface lies
Pause a moment the masquerade
Telling postures now displayed
Rueful smiles and tired eyes
A warm glance melts a mask of ice
And as the frame fades away
Smoke and mirrors back into play
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
the other day
I occupied a chair
at a sidewalk café
watching the vanity fair of the quotidian
float by in quickly changing apparitions
an endless flow of different ages, nations, fashions,
skin colors, miens, ****** expressions, postures & gaits
kept passing through my field of vision
it made me wonder why
some people get so furious
when they just hear about
not even meet
the ‘others’ different from themselves
that they start dropping bombs and shooting rockets
I think they rather should be curious
and eager to discover
how the immense variety of humankind
can help expand a locally grown mind
and recognize
that we are all of the same kind
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Crocodiles catnapping cuddling in cordial cliques,
Loafing, lollygagging, lurking low like lounging leeches,
Protective postures pouncing prey with piercing pinned precision,
Brilliant belligerent beasts basking boldly by swamp beaches,
Agressively angry attitudes among alluring adverse animals,
Deep daunting jaws of death damage drastically when dropping down,
Scales shaped like stabbing shards scrape while swimming strongly,
Opposing opposition order obedience of outrageous odious opponents,
Raged ravenous rapacious reptiles rank repulsive ratings and resourses...
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
Go to sleep—though of course you will not—
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—
sleep, sleep . . .
Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream—
A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors—
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.
The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.
The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you—
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes—and never passes—
4k
shirelles
monday night
alone in a big house
light the candles
another one of my rituals
born one hour,
dead the next
to make room
for other
prayers
postures
pen tips
but the way candles
flicker in the sweet
soul
is not another ritual
warm life
to the tune of golden
notes
swimming through
once bleak
once empty
once impure
air
and suddenly, I am baptized
more than I ever was
in that sterile, dead
chlorine
more than spent hymns
in drafty cathedrals
so, the sound lives.
my bed would tilt
at twelve years old
I'd wake
startled of the
psychic death
spread like bodies after
a paid for war
I'd scream like the cats
fighting by the window
at my aunts house
I would huddle with
my childhood
hiding from the puberty
that stalked me
like a jungle cat
the mind reeled with
my spent pulse and
at night
under shamed
covers
bitten fingertips
the white light
on the street
looking on
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
I build my new life over graveyards swollen,
each journey stolen on paths walked before;
the oak church door, the adolescent postures,
first breath of **** first taste of flight
amongst grounded freedom, amongst polluted nights.
I trade eyes with women over numbered tables,
contriving fables from coffee cups, loose-tongued gospels
for manufactured apostles, remnants of mistreated advice;
last pocket of **** last drink of the night,
I have learned when to swallow, I have learned when to fight.
I found myself in the ground-zero wreckage,
last vestige of meaning and useful obsession,
those drunk-dial confessions, aftermath of silence;
first smoke of the day, last image of starlight,
I have forgiven my failings, I have kept them in sight.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
All that I owe the fellows of the grave
And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates
Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,
Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.
O all I owe is all the flesh inherits,
My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves,
My sisters tears that sing upon my head
My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop,
My fallen filled, that had the hint of death,
Heir to the telling senses that alone
Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch,
I round this heritage as rounds the sun
His windy sky, and, as the candles moon,
Cast light upon my weather. I am heir
To women who have twisted their last smile,
To children who were suckled on a plague,
To young adorers dying on a kiss.
All such disease I doctor in my blood,
And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath.
Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune
And browse upon the postures of the dead;
All night and day I eye the ragged globe
Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave;
All night and day I wander in these same
Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,
And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
2.4k
You're so dangerous with your profane paraphernalia
Your pelvis postures pandering favor
The line of your stomach embossed by the fire is like a pasture for me
So paranoid with your pacifistic lust
As you proceed to please me with your posture so slightly
And I attempt to pursue oh so politely
You make me perk up like a peacock just with one peak
You're aware of every petty palpitation you can feel just under my sleeve
You play me like a piano, so plush with your lust politics
Pandering for a pardon of my ***** talk poignancy
I part you like Pluto from your orbits serene hum
I'll pleasure you, pleasure you until you're purple like a plum
A pastimes poetises to be written with pleasing lead
You plan every move like a predator in my bed
You're polarizing, plump, and pampered like a pageant doll
Pilfering every plausible pause with a pose of voice, your moan
Seizing the post with your post - modern pompous pouncing
Prompted like Pisces to postulate your prognosis
Lifting your posterior like the pun of a phaliccy
Pillaging me like a pandemic, a plague
Something to be paraded by paganistic plauds
Your pale skin is like playwear for sins
You're pinning me plastered with the play of your grin
Such a pretty motion picture to paint in the prison of your promise
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.9k
Nourish these seeds.
For the nourishment they each receive determines how prepared they'll be as trees.
Prepared young trees.
Told to find their own sunlight, lest their plight ends early. Branches seize.
Drifting, curious breeze.
Sin slips slyly through the forest, spreading guilt varicose under leaves.
Impending Winter freeze.
Even the most upright trunk may lose more leaves than it that shed a few in flirting with that sinful breeze.
Each believes, if it survives the winter freeze, it was of greater stature,
that its leaves, or trunk, or journey up set it apart from brethren battered.
But is a tree ever more a tree? Or do wriggles and postures not matter if, in the spring, they all are trees?
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
towards another end
the black sky of winter postures
¬fireflies like stars by
depictions of dancing¬
ochre soil of rock escarpments
flood plains, buffalo grazing
and you smile at me as we’re driving
it seems presence always has a way of disassociating
I have so much to say
but when you’re attentive it all feels cliché
just play me piano keys and ruminations
when the storms sink the streets
and drains overflow with branches
there’s always that desire to stand amongst it
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
Tu voudrais que j'improvise
Les chemins qui mènent au septième ciel
Pour notre prochain congrès
Que je vienne les mains vides
Sans notes ni croquis
Pour te couronner reine et courtisane.
Mais demanderais-tu au peintre de venir à toi
Sans son pinceau, ses fusains, ses tubes d'aquarelle et son papier canson
Ou au photographe sans son posemètre, son trépied et ses filtres, son appareil photo et ses objectifs
Et un auteur de théâtre pourrait-il officier sans donner des indications?
Des orientations, des pistes pour que les acteurs puissent mieux jouer leurs personnages
Eh bien moi je voudrais écrire de concert avec toi les didascalies de notre lune de miel.
Pense au Cantique des Cantiques
Pense à Salomon, à son épouse et aux jeunes filles ,
Penses-y bien, ma sans rivale,
Ma muse venue au monde sept fois
Et dont aucune galante n 'arrive aux chevilles
Comment veux-tu qu'on se retrouve dans la mare aux nénuphars
Deux canards mandarins batifolant
Sans didascalies...
Tu connais les soixante-quatre manières du kama
Tu sais la différence entre baratement et percement
Et tu veux goûter le chalumeau du miel
Lors du congrès de la corneille
Alors tandis que tu me provoques du regard et du geste
En dansant comme une bayadère accomplie
Souviens toi des didascalies.
Je suis ton vert-galant, ton esclave, ton cornac
Ton renifleur, ton cunnilingue, ton Sigisté
Si tu veux tu seras ma nymphe, mon myrte, ma lanterne, ma crête,
Ma landie, ma douceur, mon amour de Vénus
Mon gaude mihi, mon impudique
Organisons nos langues et nos boutons
Nos protubérances.
Pour qu'aucune partie ne soit honteuse
Pour que toutes soient honnêtes
Il faut des chapitres et des actes
Dans lesquels les morsures, les égratignures, les baisers
Les succions et les caresses s'emboîtent dans un naturel
Si joliment organisé que chaque posture génère
Une improvisation et que chaque improvisation génère une nouvelle posture.
Alternons les phases pudiques et impudiques
Sans tabou éperonnons-nous
Empalons-nous dans les postures de singe ou d'éléphant
Peu importe si la mentule précède le tentigo
Ou le contraire
Peu importe qui est dessus ou dessous
Qui lèche et qui est léché, qui est mordillé, qui est marqué,
Qui est baisé et pénétré
Si c'est simultanément ou séparément
Nous appartenons nous aussi au règne animal
Et que la verge soit masculine ou féminine
C 'est toujours l'aiguillon de la volupté qui guidera nos didascalies.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
She has decided to grow her hair.
Not for frugal reasons, mind you,
rather, to see the extent of the future.
Or, how tangled it might become at length.
Why do women grow their hair?,
she postures to the mirror.
*It's like deciding to go to market,
when there's already sufficient in the pantry.*
Pouring water through the tresses
to cool like an Icelandic fjord,
trickling bubbles down to a spurious sea.
The squeakings bring enjoyment,
a sense of karmic victory.
Knot it and make mysterious!
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.6k
His hand was outstretched, nabbing a pesky windswept hamburger wrapper
near a garbage can alongside the exit to the cafeteria
Bent over, exposed, frozen, pretending the hamburger wrapper
required more effort than normal to dislodge it from the open air just above the ground
Perhaps it was a turnip or a beet, that he had to carefully, surgically remove
and it was only that he saw me coming
if I could have slowed down time, to slow motion
Seeing my boss, the principal of the school, up ended like this
for the sole purpose of not having to look me in the face, I would have
more kids would have had a chance to stare at this strange posture,
and wonder how a hamburger wrapper could have such a difficult
time being removed from the ground and I want to remember this pose
it only gets worse, and as my exit comes nearer, I feel lighter
but he still can't look me in the eye
if he felt secure in his decision, in all his decisions about me
he could, but he doesn't
So he will focus more time than needed to grasp that delicate
wrapper, which contained a stale bun and the remains of a dairy cow
spent and gone before her time on a factory farm in the central valley
and if insecurity can impose such ludicrous postures on a person
I will take this lesson, and remember always to be brave
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
By Adam & Arcassin
:::AK:::
What is technically the first season?
Winter
The cold drives you insane,
but you swear that is not it.
So what is it?
Do you ever feel safe
as each unique snowflake falls?
Will you accept Spring is just around the corner,
because life is filled with hope.
*Never be scared,
you can try again.*
Spring
Everything is made new,
all old things feel worn out.
Flowers bloom,
and the wind has a simple tune.
Birds chirp,
and the guy who loves a girl flirts.
*Never be scared,
you can try again.*
:::AB:::
What is technically the fifth season?
A bunch of remedies of what the weather could be,
Is it rain , sleek , snow or feeling dusty,
In the people purple postures feeling fluffy,
fall
Ah !! I hate school , its a crying shame,
But you gotta be shameless,
Penny penchant wear a costume with some silver stains,
And the kind of feel in the holiday is pretty wasteless,
Need another moment for life to feel the pain,
Autumn
Leaves fall for purposes don't push it,
The leaves will leave you in shambles,
Nice condensation when you think about it,
Trying not to get your rocks off buying out of staples,
But who goes to staples anymore forget about it.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
I can be a wretched fake, in private, intimate performance.
I’m an actress capable of imitating spontaneous pleasure -
by tricks of hesitation, convulsive vocal play and postures.
A mimicry undetectable to an immediate spectator.
"Aww, thank you", I’ll sigh, as if leaving a good party.
“I’ve got a lot of homework to do,” I’ll add, a minute later.
To clear the stage.
Feb 14, 2024
Feb 14, 2024 at 10:18 PM UTC
i.
Evil sleeps in an orchard
not far from here.
The apples sweat him out.
Dressed as god, the Sun
watches and nods.
He bleeds for them
out of his own mouth.
A god's mask
means protection.
But in time,
he will **** them dry.
And autumn will fall.
Postures will fall.
Pulses will fall,
like pills,
like poison.
ii.
A cloud forest
signals the first
of the shadows.
Summer is nocturnal.
A buttery Moon
leaves the world
warm and breathing.
The trees stir,
the stars hiccup,
and Nighttime climbs onto the birdbath
where it tells you all its tricks.
iii.
Evil blinks from a tree
where the apple skulls
intrude.
The garden combs you
through its arteries,
scooping
your midsummer grave.
A beautiful accident
closes in on itself.
And then a light like milk.
And then the whistling.
iv.
Summer whistles in the dark:
The sound of Evil kneeling
to the imagination
undoing him.
A deadly glow
becoming
a romance
on the white fences.
Nighttime draws dust
away from your shoulders,
translates Summer sound
and says,
You are your own harvest.
Your madness is only there
when you want it to be.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
Though first, I evolved according to plan
Little enabled me outlive this predator
With few permanent armor plates, strong
Muscles capable of crushing
Anything, bones extremely tough,
These serious injuries go beyond
My cold-bloodedness.
I like my environment, have developed
Behaviors to control it, to save energy
That can be put to other use
An evolved entirety of reason
Is why I can go for over a year
In extreme shutdown
My own tissue will feed
On anything it can overpower
Extraordinarily adaptable
During difficult times,
I will scavenge for everything,
Digest nothing left behind
My social interactions are complicated
I primarily lead a solitary life, don’t recognize
Vocalization, postures, signals, touch
My brain more complex than that of any other
A powerful sense of perception
The ability to learn, to avoid situations
That modify me structurally
Adaptations have allowed me to thrive
But surviving human encroachment
May be my biggest challenge
Through habitat enhancement
I may be able to ensure these
Sophisticated survival skills
For years to come
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
But s/he ,
s/he who had a dream
was in your dream
recently
to tell you
a secret
given to it
by an ascetic
in its dream
The warrior
s/he said
is who you really are
that’s why
you should be
here and now
an avatar
of countless postures of you
manifest
an energy
which can convert
renew
and
is to be delivered to
the identical selves
through
invisible aural tunnels
These resonate ideally
remain non-audible
except for the two
communicating ends.
s/he or it
in your dream
-might have been a messenger
a messenger to deliver you the message-
was linked
in a sense that you might not want
but should honor
for the upcoming task
set on the warrior’s path
and you two
have one great number
a written secret
s/he or it has acquired
through an ascetic
in its dream
and you
from it
in your dream
in a form
that you won’t forget
but which
nobody will ever notice or
find back
written
on a side of a white torn bit
sheltered
in the house of the spirit
the path of truth should be received
As a Choice Only
in Full Consciousness
with Full Knowing Only
because
when once received
truth as love
is one way exit
you must know-make it your gift
longing incites the illusive
when illusive is incited
a rose fragrance
rises
to stop the four.petalled turn
the Visionary.Imaginary whips shadows
to block the true sight
you lose then your moon cycles
step on a thorny dark edge
to be tested
to find the way to truth
to find means to create the path
intuition is your only : trust the breadcrumbs
and the upright flying bird
has the breath of genuine
to set the next vibratory path
at both ends
of a stretched line
twin natures should awaken
in rhyme
and be made one
let then the following program run:
opposite charges to return a kiss
a kiss to collapse the helix
right there
as far as the integers of the soul’s string
the exit to truth lies at a clearing
Walk the cave made of the living
illuminated by the full moon’s shine
Let your cycle return before dawn
so ends an end by you two as Two becomes One
It’s just a dot or a line or a number which ends and starts.
There is no difference really at a place without Time.
or at an eternal frequency which is timeless.
We cannot tell you more.
That’s all our nature allows us to know.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
Let’s scrabble to rouse the rabble,
The massive blithering and blathering,
Make protests ring above the babble
And set foaming mouths lathering,
When our country and its youth,
Newly awakened and newly wise,
Stand up and demand the truth
Instead of the usual pack of lies.
The rich get the wheat
And we get the chaff
Then the rich sit back
In their palaces and laugh.
What has served as intelligence
Has put this country in a bind
By people with no common sense.
Supposed adults just voting blind
Based on ideas without merit.
Those with money get a pass
And let the taxpayers bear it.
Then the rest take it in the ***
The ‘haves” drink wine
And we drink water
Maybe sometime soon
They’ll come for your daughter.
The people we have elected
Saw a shaky foundation laid
Have left us mostly unprotected
And massive bribes were paid.
The wealthy among us got a pass
So now just the rich have a voice
And the poor and working class
Have no effective voice.
The wealthy get shoes
And we get bare feet.
We learn to live our lives
In postures of defeat.
This is the age of communication;
We have to look at what we are doing.
We still can save our weakened nation.
And maybe start some careful suing.
Let’s vote out the Couriers of Hate;
Hold these ******** to their vows.
To stand up to their inequities
We need to start right now.
The rich get the wheat
And we get the chaff
Then the rich sit back
In their palaces and laugh.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
When clouds upon the summer breeze all rest
And easeful, take upon their faery flight
Into the paling crimson of the west
Where noonday dreams wilt in the breath of night,
I look into the east, and try to bear
No more a single thought of gloom or tear
For tangled comes my heart in wreathes of drear
For seeing just the day lie on its bier.
Up at the twinkling summer stars I gaze
And far as any falcon, swift, may spy
Lie constellations whose postures can trace
A story of some wild ecstasy;
A tale of unworldly days of yore
When wine flowed free and through the earth did seep
And Heracles stood tall and Phobetor
Was purely myth to scare the young to sleep.
And as I stare upon these stars, my eyes
Close then and open to new morning skies.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
A little stone
found me on my way
she took me in her hands
using my hands
and she whispered
using the sound of the wind:
My gift to you
she said
is the moment
that makes you be
these endless landscapes
I’ve crossed
until our ways met
to touch this way
We exchange to purify
without being attached
no thoughts – no visions –
no appreciation of time –
no expectations from the past –
no intention of the next and after
shall trespass
This is a message to be delivered to you
that shall come in handy sometime
because it’s no mystery that
there really is no one out there
but a technology of
‘when you are not
the will suffers having not
initiated my mud
to sculpt ‘
then
the following is a swamp
Come lets walk hand in hand
stand on that hill and watch
while the wind blows us through the blue
rounding red yellow curly hue
of high rocks
look inside
and sing now
one as I
*
then you will see
then you will be
you do not need to touch
pick a stone just
call it mystery
call it technology
all the same
when all there is
is is
not the eyes
but my presence
that which illuminates
sees
sees to dance
and correct postures
sees to be
the very object
as clarity
eyes gets better
if it were blurred
posture straightens
if it were crimpled
you become the sweetest
shape of the wind to a bumblebee
an ever expanding
harmonics of a
song unknowingly
for a moment just
for a moment maybe
but such a moment of
a celebration is
comparable to a
lifetime only*
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
my bike blue
is a special blue
that’s how I recognize you
when it ‘s dark
it shines morning skies
I suspect
yours is no paint
but an invisible skin
that secretly
gazes
and inhales
moods of me
to shape thyself
in harmonic postures
of us
so that
you and I
will manifest
one ride one road
roads will form with us
we pedal a mantra
my bike blue
is a special blue
that’s how I recognize you
no matter the light
you are by my side
but at times
like tonight
when we are apart
I may also prefer to walk alone sometimes
under a starlight
to witness
the change
of a phase
of matter
an urge
to relate
to my body
differently
maybe
as I used to do sometimes
that walking fast
activates a memory
they would know
where to take me
and so I follow
my footsteps
just
empty streets
is you
in my mind
I compose
random chords
of traffic
of cars
of flows
of minds
sounds
cannot catch up
with us
neither of pasts nor of futures
words escape to stars
stars will sing lyrics for you
for us
next time when we align
each time a song of reality
is a new one
my bike blue
is a special blue
that’s how I recognize you
second life was the name
of the man
who made me for you
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC