Arthur Flockwhimsy Poet Prose Poetry

A-B=me

Perhaps the stifled conversation, the contact Of Bodies

Or the Building and Spitting and Swearing

The Light, the graze of many Nameless finger-tips

Or the tenderness, which in the end, Deciphered Nothing.

The words addressed and loved by Someone,

But never repeated, nor spoken of since,

Vanished Smiles, lost  while pursuing things

 piled up

In the moist corner of some heated soul, 

The feeling of Black hair,

Soft and brief, against a nipple, A Thigh wrapped loose

And lazy across Jutted hips.

Or Withered clocks, the blue cement of dreams,

The Passed over Jokes, Or all those hushed Anguish hearts,

Sipped Steamy, With Coffee.

Casually flicked Loves, like Stomped Cigarette Butts

Or maybe abandoned street wise and left 

For a car to run over. Finish Off. 

(We never did think about Ashtrays or Forest Fires)

Your Stampede of Breath, those Trampling hoofs of Wine,

The sight of pants, tussled, awry, spread eagle over a lamp,

“But, what If it Catches Fire?”

That girl who came to shout. 

But forgot her Tongue, Her Throat , Her Mouth.

And Ended up just standing there crying.

Of splendor and Steaming, the Mouth of never Say, Not-No-I’m Tired,

The soft Peach Fuzz hair, of everywhere Dear

The taste of licked dew across your cheek-bones

(Just How long… did we sleep on that Park Bench?)

The Palm trees harried by Squirrels pretending to be Roosters

The sea left Behind, the ground darkened by stones,

How Long Baby? It’s been such a Long time…

This tiny house, the floors covered in Papers

“But, What if it Catches Fire?”

To late though… 

Even I Realize.

These Memories Are Already Ablaze. 




-thend-

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