Before I first crawled from a mythical ocean
light years before history began to take itself seriously
I was told to spin new myths.
The dead-not-so-dead gave me buckets of myths.
“This is your mission,” they said, “carry these buckets
one by one to a place called, solid footholds."
The buckets had water in them
for myths need an aqueous environment.
Because they swam in the same bucket
the myths became mixed, some copulated
spawning more myths.
In a dream I was told that if the place called
solid footholds ever ran out of myths
it would blow away in a cloud of dust.
Until now the buckets have not run dry,
been spilled or wasted
but the place of solid footholds
is drying up for want of more mythical tales.
I am not the only myth carrier, there are many.
If you are one of those then carry buckets
to the place of solid footholds
before its footprints are gone forever.
We copulated
in front of the TV ...
Every scream of yours,
a goal of mine ... and the fans
crazed applauded ...
We copulated,
in front of a canary ...
Every trine of yours,
every moan of mine,
mesmerized, and challenged
further was cracking the canary ...
We had sex,
in front of a shooting platoon ...
in our wince,
extra shivering ...
We'll be done soon
not to be
hit by the bullets ... and look, neither
we felt guilty ...
We had sex,
in front of a cat ...
Every moan of yours,
every howl of my ... the cat
meow all bristly ...
We didn't have sex
in front of Gioconda ...
But let's do it ...
for her to lose her pose,
to cut her protruding
gestural ...
So beautiful and dangerous
The Cecilia lion of the firestorm
Setting sexualized minds ablaze
A lioness with a gentle touch
What would you do to engage with this minx
Would you kneel, pleasure her on your knees
Playing a free spirit's tune
Inhaling the scent of jasmine and sex
Laying down in her domain, her humble abode
Burning deep within, melting in ecstasy
A living flame, hot to the touch
An incarnate of luring pulchritude
Serving to ignite this burning inclination
Cecilia Lion has been glazed in torridness
She wears her erotic tendencies gracefully, sexually, and beautifully
More stunning the more I hanker for her
Her assets full and bright
Canting to hear her soughing
Lioness bears her claws
She becomes undone
Not wanting to be silent
To make love under the gold of a crimson hue, that would be wondrous
Mained and copulated by this carnivora
Beastia of the venereal tropic plains
Aggressive, to snuff out my libidinous
Succumbing to the Cecilia Lion's design
While watching TV, heard someone say “copulated”
Mistaken for a word for lotsa people like “populated”
Very important it is
Language isn't a quiz
Must try hard to be a whole bunch better postulated
WORLDS AND WORLDS OF TIME AGO AND BEFORE
IN EONS AND EONS OF MOMENTS OF LIVES
HAVE INHABITED, ON AND IN WORLDS OF WORLDS AROUND,
RESIDED IN WORLDS OF SEAS IN EMBRYONIC STATE
COMPLETED AND VIED WITH CRUSTACEOUS OBSCURITIES
DID DINE AND WAS CONSUMED IN BONELESS APPETITIVE ZEST
ROMPED AND CAJOLED AT PALAELITHICAL STAGES
ABIDED WITH THE GODS IN SPACES OF YORE
AND SOARED AS ETHEREAL BEING'S WITH WINGS OF ETHER
DONNED SUITS OF ROBOTIC CLOAKS OF ARMOUR
SURVIVED ELECTRICAL BARRAGES OF PERSECUTING CONTROL
DELVED IN SUBTERRANEAN HEWED CAVERNOUS CHAMBERS
AS ASTUTE EGOISTICAL TERRIFIED SCIOPHOBICAL MORTALS
TRUDGED VAST GLACIAL AND TURBULENT TORRID MORIBUND PLACES
COPULATED WITH ABORIGINAL NATURED SOULS
ROMPED WITH FREE ABANDON O'ER ALPINE HEIGHTS
THOUGHT POSTULATED, THOUGHT MADE ALL POSSIBLE
LONG BEFORE THIS WORLD WAS CREATED, I WAS.
I just hit the wall.
I am not crying to it. It is filled
with peeping holes. Light strobes
there are none because it is dark
out here.
What do you think of me?
I can sing. I chant weird mumbles
that passersby frown at. I howl
like a dog in heat, begging
to be copulated. At times I am quieter
I spit insults and laugh generously
catching my breath. What else? Ah..I shout
like: I AM ASHAMED OF YOU!
WHAT DO YOU KNOW? These are lyrics?
This is a really beautiful career!
Send me the photographers
and I will show them my swear finger.
You dare enter, you dare.
I can smell your mind,
decomposing into a routine sameness:
a foul kind of stagnation.
I am your judge.
I should say it is not lack of language
that you suffer. It is deafness.
Yes, there are these lines that will not
come through, simply break up, can not
hold our minds, or
it is your head now choking with weeds
strangled by assumed perceptions
that you can not truly perceive.
Do not deceive me.
Ignore me if you can. But it is over
I have conquered. And you lie bleeding
at the mercy of verse.