Amusing

He writes to me in curly cues painting fractals on pressed paper made of rice. Shreds of simple stalks are beaten to bare the smoothness of his script. We have not known each other long but we have known each other since man first made fire, the poet and his muse. His presentation fascinates with swirls of brush or indian ink he strokes, both deep and long, with pleasant pressure most often. His words though highbrow smack of pent passions, watering palates and earthy scents. The wanting so sweet no reality could fill the expanse, the oceans of prose, the mountains which jut provocatively, daring, inviting, the cleats of man, use pinion and hammer triumphantly upon the bounty of breast, the thigh of night the whimper of dawn. Poet preen for your muse Caress the unsullied parchment whiteness in the hollow of my neck. First Published in Pyrokinection May 2013