"transposed" poems
On whether technology has influenced the seeming rise in mental health issues: The concept of technology as separate than Nature is impossible to pin down, but to say that a lifetime of social pressures, advertising, television, and processed and genetically altered foodstuffs would not affect what the brain is used to, and what is was designed to do, is a non sequitur. Certainly an entirely separate set of influences also had negative consequences in the brains' of pre-man, but these were not of his own making, as he still lived in an organic environment, and therefore wasn't a part of the "feedback loop" we have going on with humans becoming the products of a man-made environment (one of the only things that sets us apart from most the animal kingdom). Either way, whatever you're doing you're getting better at it, so with the increase in time spent on the web and watching TV we are increasingly better at watching other people - being passive, non-accountable, constantly comparative and self-obsessed, impotent in light of the mass of information constantly flooding towards you - which the brain was not originally intended for. This seems obvious. So the fact that some people have things like crippling anxiety and OCD, or develop anti-social disorders and the like, seems like a logical result produced by a system (the brain) presented with new and inorganic conditions. On top of that, being a non-douche is naturally and evolutionarily based because it increases the likelihood that others will want to chilll'n'stuff and help you when you need it, but when transposed onto a crowded, fast-paced modernity it twists into something like flattery and competition to appear the most altruistic.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 11:45 AM UTC
Before the gate has been closed,
before the last question is posed,
before I am transposed.
Before the weeds fill the gardens,
before there are no pardons,
before the concrete hardens.
Before all the flute-holes are covered,
before things are locked in then cupboard,
before the rules are discovered.
Before the conclusion is planned,
before God closes his hand,
before we have nowhere to stand.
7.7k
Grinding....
Leaving it silenced, drawn and quartered
Clawing for the scraps left over
Predicament I found myself in
Or, towards the end of it
Slipping from the edges
Forager focused on finding any way back home
Sidetracked by some apparition left crying
Alone, in the corner
Grinding...
Paused, with rain drops weighted, heavy sense in the air
I can feel my lips turning blue and
Twitching
It's more literal than I would dare dream in a waking nightmare
The smell of every molecule tantamount to another realm
Hangs motionless in the air
The stone transposed becomes a rooftop asylum, overlooking such uncouth misanthropic parcels, self absorbed in this grotesque imagery, a veritable wall of self hate puzzle pieces
Grinding...
Low, on an almost ominous note, still grows colder in my ears
Blowing on winds filled with the spite and righteous
Anti holy
Fully rupturing sound of far off laughter of the
New root
My lips still moving
No sound produced
And my mind
Grinding...
I still pray to god for you
Beset on all sides by the same wickedness
Still afflicted by myself
Argue for arguments sake
****** up on the uptake
I thought that you might want it
I guess I forgot all the subtle ways
The fires spring to life at night
Arguably the wrong choice is
Looking at him
I try not to
Catch that glimpse in his eye
Already my mind races
And my bones are shivering
At the thought alone
Brickwork backing
Still swells maggots
And filing paperwork
For entrapment habits
Grinding
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
the world is a wild and weary place,
fully sunk in spiral ******
fully strummed in skin water waves.
bound by death from the very first verse:
first love.
first this.
go forth my machines, be fruitful and jettison.
color says hang at the edge of our lips.
smell the books.
remind us; books.
& before the big blue vast takes it all, that
sunstruck lomographia light,
transposed no-makeup california girl, she
walks before me along the boulders of the wharf.
real summer breathing.
our bodies, piled
and starbleached ripe. [like heap of buffalo skulls]
maybe then a futuristic dinner, where everyone gathers in floating space pods
singing hymns beneath,
above,
between
the lights and music.
reality is: blacktop shards against my knees,
something burning as it trickles to my chin, man of me
living the city glisten, city green
& pink.
city midnight and barely breathing.
destroyers, we are.
and what? what am i, father? man of industry?
man of workwelded science? secure as the armadillo,
armadillo picket fence.
am i of halfbreed phosphorus?
americana?
built on love and hate and television.
nat geo channel: [a gecko licks dew from its eyes
on the coastal sand dunes of namibia]
money. women. go west young man.
be a hand tightening ribs.
be a quaking echo of mammalian design.
a paradigm of seed my fire.
quest for fire.
for uncut diamond; like foggy strawberry rock in the africa-boy's fingers.
or cut steel; phallus of toyish death between a brazil-boy’s fingers.
pulled teeth; bits of wet fruit in the young afghani’s hand.
& icecream trolley; pedestal etched iron; denim and *** and
microwaves ::::::
white man: what I got ? what I got ?
manifest destiny: gold bricks and beer.
blood soaked socks.
cyprus burnt umbers.
tribes decomposing at the bottoms of styrofoam cups.
like coin-op wormies.
& eighteen inch circumference blades make round rolling high pitched songs deep in the skin of old mother earth.
old baby cakes.
old life in slow motion, all motion, all
of particle cannon treatise.
40 ounce bounce.
watery us
below.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
Sorry it ended up like this.
Me out here, still wrapped up warm in my vestigial garment of flesh.
You in there, naked amongst your primitive ancestors like the youngest adult at a wedding, mingling awkwardly, embarrassed.
I wonder how you died. Your ribs look like they have been fixed back together after some kind of trauma.
A car crash maybe?
Maybe you struggled with long term illness, rotting before you ripened like a sickly bud in a wet spring.
However it happened your bronze plaque states it was untimely and therefore probably tragic. '(A young woman)' I read, not so much discovering but confirming what I already knew to be true when I first laid eyes first met yours across the crowded room.
You stand about as tall as me, your shining off white cheeks delicate as fine china. Staring out of you glass cabinet, you seem to beg not to be judged alongside your distant relatives, your slumping neighbors.
Fragile and sweet, you radiate a quiet dignity. It isn't hard to imagine the thin layer of blood, skin and fibrous tissue that it would take to make you beautiful again.
I plunge my hand through that glass portal, soft folds of meat transposed to brittle bone and back again, unifying you world with the mortal
It was obvious that you were beautiful, and involuntarily I envy the one who held you and kissed you last.
I wonder if anyone ever wrote a poem for you when you were alive.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
I am
In a word
transfixed to a moment
the epitome of evolution
the pinnacle of creation
I laugh triumphantly
As my knife pierces the medium rare steak
So civilized
I am
that rare breeze
that has traveled the distance
of so many sorrows
a physical force
borne of the contradiction
between warmth and the abyss
I am
very respected
I adjust the tie
the trapezoidal patterns hide so coolly
the noose around my neck
a lynching of estimation
in a two part drama
I am
leaning against the wall
the flesh pressed against the graffiti
my being transposed against someone else's thoughts
its all a happenstance
an accidental meeting without a gaze
but for that commonality
we have nothing in common
I am
a synapse
I pass on the sensations
of pain and pleasure
without discrimination
my free will
in all its glory
succumbs to a chemical reaction
yet I must be more
or maybe just maybe
the knife I hold can pierce more than flesh
I am
floating on a stationary platform
I choose my destiny
I rearrange the order of confusion
a train screeches to a halt
a sea of ties and heels
self assured smiles
of the precise menu
may I have the check please
I am
a random canopy of emotion
I flutter in the breeze
the clearest expression of being
of breathing
of wanting
of feeling
a rare glimpse
a subtle smile
a delicate touch of flesh against flesh
its all too fleeting
transparency and no more
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC
We took an impromptu trip to where you can have fun when it's real late. You don't have to leave the building ....but you can still get a date.
The lights are dim and there's a few flatscreens on the wall. The barmaids are looking good and serving up the drinks. The music is pounding shaking the floor.....dollars are being thrown and the girls are looking for more.
The bottles are popping in VIP.....I'm just enjoying the eye candy that I see.
She approaches me from the rear and rubs her hand across my chest. She says "You feel kind of tight....you must be stressed."
A slow song plays in the background .....and she begins to dance like a king cobra. The only difference is that I wasn't afraid to hold her. I pull her close and rub her like Aladdin's lamp. My intentions are to make her damp.
We are transposed to a place where we are all alone....I whisper in her ear some sultry adjectives and verbs.....and her response are faint whispers...muffled words. Syllables spoken,but nothing heard.
She grabs my hands and leads me around her temple. She takes my hand and makes me massage her breasts.....and runs my hand down her legs. Her attempt to make me beg for more.....and to get me on the other side of the door where I could pay to play.
She whispers in my ear that she is getting moist down below. The question is if i want to continue the show. The dance continues and she stops grinding on my erection. Her eyes lock on me and she places the most seductive kiss upon my lips....
You are not like the other men who view me as a passing ship. They want to slip their hands and money in my thong like they are paying a fare.
When they get off ....I'm just sitting there....waiting for the next one to come along. I'm glad that you treat me with decency and respect.
She placed a kiss upon my neck........and said thank you and took her place on deck......the d.j. introduced her
Coming to the stage ......our featured dancer of the evening "Destiny".
She began to work the pole after she wiped it down. I finished my drink and gave her one last look.....and made my way back uptown.
I thought about destiny on my way back home.......and smiled when she sent this text to my phone......"Since you left I feel all alone....I can't wait to lay next to you when I get home." "I Love you."
I'm your private dancer...I dance for your money. I'll do whatever you want me to do.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
I sometimes look at pictures of this
pornstar
who
sort of looks
at me the same way as a girl I liked
when I was in elementary school
and middle school
and high school
and
I guess I still kind of like her;
and that’s why I look at pictures of
this pornstar when I **********
I feel bad, seeing her ***** there--
this person I’ve transposed with
memories.
It reminds me of college vacation
she was jogging and saw me on a hill;
I shouldn’t be seeing this-- I thought.
Still she saw me peek.
And we used to be friends, or something.
When my crush refused my present during
second grade, I gave it to her.
Her voice came as close to touching me
as anything I’ve ever held;
and her eyes were piercing with their
trust and sympathy.
But I’ll never tell her,
that I can’t *********
with her watching me.
And no, it’s not a love story.
I won’t ever tell her-- even if she always
knew.
Remorse looks too much like
blonde women.
And it’s ruining my **** habit.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
Walked in like B flat
Slow music playing
Heels clicked like staccato
Dress cello imitating
Blue notes sunken
Drunken with the motion
Of the left right sway
Spin, dip, heads floating
River more than ocean
She never stands still
She don't shoot the breeze
Heart-breaker, shoot to ****
Then she transposed the thrill
B harmonic minor
Tango, stomp, clap
Somebody shot the dress designer.
Violence in the night
Gasoline on the floor
Swift step matchstick heels
She adores the
White
Light
Like coconut cream
Musicians bathe with the moon
Sleep with its beams
Play until the world
Seems to burst at the seams
Set fire to the rivers
Inhale the steam
Descend with the fifths
Never rest on a trill
Cut the drums, spotlight
Let her transpose the thrill
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Dawn will soon be embraced
for treasures beyond the curve
of the earth now brought to hand
wanton actions then expressed
the mold is broken and then reformed
sensuous defined by each one
far-flung stars gazed in sleep
Scorpio waiting for a chance
when emotions churn within
private dreams foretold the way
those secret urges beyond the veil
brought to waking in the light
morning risen to exclaim
what the night hid away
the slumbering to be roused
or should arousal be the term
for dispassion put aside
in response to nature’s urge
vocal ***** and stirring hens
or reversed and transposed
now awoken from their sleep
ask for strokes to greet the day
more than enough to awake
achieve release not found in sleep.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180930.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
I know who I am
what I remember
how I felt
I know who I am
There is this mantle
thrown over me
hiding my truth
for his benefit.
I keep throwing it off.
I am not that person.
He, most of all knows this,
yet his mask continues
to be painted on my face.
Even as he is away.
This is my biggest fear:
that I become the image
transposed on me
and not myself.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
You had sung of grapes too
and transposed curious waves of hair.
But the icon grafted
next to namesake
had borne no resemblance.
A spectral fire (you).
I exorcise the evidence
and tear down your temples.
A different current caught you
another foreign wave.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 7:00 PM UTC
and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner
for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,
and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract
house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,
and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,
and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,
and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the
neighbor’s unbloomed roses;
and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,
and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow
lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and
the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,
and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.
The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…
the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,
the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,
and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,
the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields
where your dad smokes *** and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,
And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,
flame retardant,
american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,
Amen.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
start a poem;
with what?
I choose a word and think: I always start poems
just like that;
I want to be more abstract
and tralala pulchritudinous --
there's a word for you; I used a thesaurus,
how phoney
how transposed and disconnected from my heart
I write
and I know I can do better than that
than this
yeah, I know that
and I'm a strong believer of
art
creating itself
when it's meant to be created
and that sometimes it's just not meant to be
but when there is so much
filling the heart with wistful agony
and agonizing wistfulness,
creating something pretty
feels pretty good; and you'd think
there'd ought to be something
to write about
if I can feel this much inside of me
if it's that heavy...
I guess
what I'm really trying to say
is that
I'm afraid.
but that's not good enough, is it?
I want to write wilting lilies and papercuts
and stubbed toes and a bit of rage and longing, but mostly
I want to write the truth
and the truth is
I'm afraid
that I'm not enough;
but I know, I know,
that's not good enough, is it?
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
You are the smell of dawn in the evening.
You are the taste of champagne in flat beer.
You are the storm after the calm,
that calls a sailor to his doom, and his resurrection.
You are the pupil of my mind's eye.
You are the reflection of eternity in the backside of a spoon,
held only long enough to know on a level beneath foresight,
between bites of spaghetti and pesto.
I alone can call you from the trenches
to embed your nature in the navel of the world.
Your pulse is the very river Nile herself.
And as you pour your own prediction of flooding into my lips,
I know the life you give.
The moon can call an owl to its perch.
Just as the sun can burn a wolf to its bones.
But what loss is that?
They both meet destiny at a coffee shop,
sipping on the preconceptions of their parents, transposed into prose,
whose simple words will uphold the will of the world.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
like a monkey at a temple
I want an immediate response from the world
my brother-in-law fights the same depression
he turned into a Cowboy
I stayed an Indian.
Back in Queens I see a man across the street
he's in an Andy Capp hat and twead coat
he used to hem my pants (he's retired now)
he knows my thoughts but doesn't recognize me unless I say hello first
see that girl on the stoop, the one with her hair veiled over her face, staring at her iphone as to a shrine
I've seen my mother-in-law bow down like that at Meher Baba's Samadhi
I should not have been watching her take darshan
in front of her Lord - in supplication - she folded into herself like a napkin
on the way back, we stayed at the Leela and had a lot to drink before we flew home
I wish she knew how lucky I felt being with her - praying and drinking
but last night she called and couldn't remember a thing
it pains me she is losing her memory
I had to repeat again and again, 'yes, I have your ticket and passport'
or 'remember we flew in together and now we are going back'.
so naturally our conversations return to her growing up on a farm in Virginia; the second oldest to four brothers, her swimming in a creek and charming all the boys, and leaving home at seventeen to dance with Margaret Craske in New York City (how she loved Miss Craske).
she married a priest who crusaded for the poor in the Lower East Side; pregnant with her first daughter (and me, having the saving grace to have married that daughter) she met Meher Baba - a meeting that changed her course and late in life she became a Psychologist (a PhD at 74!).
her natural graciousness was born of the wild flowers of Machair (her people are from the Hebrides),
her love of dance, now transposed and expressed in a light and buoyant outlook, made all a fools mimicry disappear like morning vapor on a Maharashtrian plateau ...
my fortune seeing that.
one day she will forget me and the world and not come back
or when she does we will have a certainty of meeting once before.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
Missing you
At the end of a day
in the space of a moment
in the breath of allay
in the wings of an angel
the space of a bar
music
transposed
from the heavens
my heart from afar
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
It's been a long time since I've looked at myself in the mirror and asked who I am
prodding a reflection to see how long it takes to change
That kind of thinking follows you- it preempts every step-
step-
I'm swallowing confusion whole. In a daily pill. A color for every feeling.
I was thinking about my circular habits when I caught myself there, again,
a black hole in the glass fragmented like..
children, transposed against war
myself, the child and the war-maker begging for peace
the harsh lines cut across valleys of wheat
cut me down, I'm begging the blackness, make fault lines out of my hate
across my body, slash my body, curl up and disappear into my body
take my body and teach me to float
I'll volunteer my soul in the name of love, lovers, loved, loving... forgiveness.
and float there in a dream that a human doesn't stand to realize any time soon, I'm sobbing for my lost dreams and stuck in my own memories, I mean --
I fool myself sometimes. Because things are harsh and harshness is perception. And connectedness comes from letting go. And ****** I've been stubborn since birth and I was stubborn when I knew God and I'm stubborn now I don't
I don't
I don't. Tell me what to do, because I'm tired of beating myself down
I once tried starving myself raw
and realized the hard way it was never an option
I miss that kind of numbness. I want to believe that the ones I want to see know how to look past skin. I'm - wanting - to float. I'm... wanting. I'm wanting in components of human nature lack lacking lacking love
I
never ever would have ever admitted
self in grounds of coffee. down the hatch, down the drain, downing levels of consciousness as days homogenize and fears are realized and
slowly drowning time
rationalized
mine
body is mine
body is dying, legs are dying, eyes are dying, drooping, dropping like flies fl-fl-fl-flying
to fly
dreams of flying
I had dreams of flying
I have dreams of flying and every day I'm dying
This is blackness reflected back. apathy.
warped cognition slides through me cold
I don't know how I got so old
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
-Oh Hello there
-How are you?
-Would you kindly like to dance this fine evening?
-I am not to be missed
-I can really two step
-I must confess
-but what you say?
-No not that
-It could not be?
-but yes you could be right, I suppose
-Do you then suppose?
-Perhaps a carnal repose is all that must be exposed
-For this here to be transposed
-Well yes I imagine that could be considered a vulgarity
-but I only long for our solidarity of insularity for clarity
-Well ok if you should decide
-I will abide and subside to further yonder
No now why must you release that powder
-a discharge is not required
-I meant no dishonour
-Well yes you are correct
-Mais c'est vraiment difficile
-you must understand
-you must know
You will give me a start Won't you?
-I should say, that is most gracious of you!
-That will do then
-I submit to you now
For your pleasu...
BANG
Be still the night it is almost light tonight.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
The overture sounds:
A muffled “thud,”
And scraping flesh against macadam.
Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,
Dividing molecules to atoms.
Each neuron fires off, splicing into three
The soul from the body,
and something indescribably between.
Catching fire, he ascends -
"This is what it truly means to be!"
Each piece, each side
Breaking away in-finitely
To somehow become more whole
Through division, and in balance.
Like a reunion, of holy trinity,
Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.
- - -
And like a cork popped from a bottle,
Rewound, and played reversed,
He careens with a whining pitch
And
f
a
l
l
s
From orbit,
Back to earth.
Glimpsing God
Only to be clawed back
To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,
To taste the bitterness of my own blood,
Juxtaposed
With the ecstasy of Nirvana.
This is how I came to know the realm
In which our feeble bodies lurch.
Reborn as a phoenix from the ashes.
From the rear cabin of a hearse.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
I've felt my fingers
withered to the core.
Wet chalk on a broken blackboard;
my words powdery prints
yearning for
a string of thoughts
that doesn't screech at night,
or that age old rhyme
that would surely make
the worst of my burdens
light.
Yet words that held no meaning,
leave me empty once transposed
from their coddled womb of inspiration,
to confined sentences in rows.
A thousand locusts inciting
itching urges
to scratch my mind across
a page,
but try as hard as I may
my rhymes betray
my age.
No wisdom pours
from out my lips, nor
knowledge
that is deep.
For all I ever held
with any depth,
I've dwindled in
my sleep.
Listen:
Despite my clingy nature,
and as unlikely as it seems,
I swear to You,
those **** locusts
ate my dreams.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
about only five
or so
thoughts will go by
till some semblance
of you
conquers my mind
rainbows and nightmares
in your hair
it flows hypnotic
from here to there
oh, darling, how it flows
like rivers within daydreams
pure beauty transposed
I stop and think
on your face a while
there are constellations
in your smile
precious pearls
to further accent
the vivid colors you
represent
you've since floated in
underneath my skin
& I like you there
moments are now shallow
as they go by
pleasure since hollowed
if you're not beside
me
& that's alright
I sense you in the night air
I conjure your closeness
to combat my despair
fervently feverish,
wanting
you there
I'd sleep in the street
if it would earn me a glare
I reach out for your embrace
I will be soothed back into
my longing dream state
your colors now paint
the night around
& soon the sound
of your name
whispered
rattles my brain
& I'm left with only
my longing
I'll yearn for you
just the same
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
I belong in the
dark rain
I reign in the deep fire
I belong in the joy and the pain
the love with no name
my weakness refrain
I lie
I conquer my desire
I reign in the echoes of my shame
I sleep in tomorrow's loving arms
I search for the beast to be tamed
but of all I seek
passion has branded me true
The toil of the earth paid my price
but I'm alive in the emptiness of cost
I'm in love
with devotion
a mistress whose price is unending
and gladly paid
I die to be her passenger
I die because death is my coin
but I'm disposed in the youth
of my innocence
where it yet knew the devil
It dances now,
steps wrought with despair
but every step leads me closer
to the peace beyond
I
never
belonged
in the ocean of the ordinary,
my wings can fly galaxies with a beat
evade calamity with a whisper
champion defeat with a bow
and embrace the inevitable with grace
and we awake...
In the hour of reckoning
light will shed upon the abyss
and we will learn
I never belonged with your enemies
because mine clothed me with armor
before the storm
I remained unbattered
unfazed by power's ultimate purchase
I lingered dead,
yet undying
my victory transposed into immortality
Thus, with enemies such
who needs a friend like you
not for whom I belong
not for a morsel of truth.
Mar 5, 2022
Mar 5, 2022 at 8:36 PM UTC
At this particular juncture
You are my salacious secret.
My impulse and my desire
Yearn for parallel,
Yet specious devotion.
Regrettably, my insight forbids
Integrating the desire with the
Collective.
Despite a substantial reciprocal fervor
And prolonged vulnerability
Which has led to my proficiency
In an art form so intricate,
My desire is transposed
And I am ensnared and subdued
By reality.
For now, you will remain
My salacious secret,
Until I accumulate the
Audacity required
To allow for such
A course of action.
Within my reverie
Is where I recede
Where my impulse and desire
Reign.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:25 AM UTC