The sky made me do it.
Like the tongue of a wet dream, there is something over the sky.
Soaked red wings, the dampness of drowned naked day.
He looks over sighing
“The Wind has Penetrated me, Does that count as Fornication?”
I Sip pomegranate tea and stare blankly.
It is a dance, this.
Only Red and Lusty Syllables know it,
It is Nothing,
It is Shadow.
The Sky itself is scarcely moist.
I am waiting on words to come--- Divine, Violet and Brutal.
Action Adjective Sounds stirred with Verb Color.
Words to Swell Sheets, Close Curtains and send teeth biting into Wrists and Arms.
It is Raining Invisible Water, The Sunset Wildly Drunk on Itself.
Clouds Bite Deliriously into Soft-Hued Blue-Orange chunks,
The Moon Fights for its Place, impregnating stars with reckless abandon.
I Look over, sip,
“The Sky is a Whorehouse tonight”
Fingers in belt loop, a sudden reply,
Green eyes Glisten--- Holy Holy Holy, Eye-Lashes licking my soul,
“Should we… leave the curtains open and really give ‘m a show?”
I look up, the rain tasting my tongue,
Flick out a cigarette, Immolate
And Send my Ashes to the Sky.
Copyright © Arthur Flockwhimsy | Year Posted 2008
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