Recently in interludia, prosaical Category

Standing bashful So unerotic, yet entirely sexy

Whose face I recall in all detail
But whose name recedes into sounds

A grevious pull into an unfelt desire
Some compulsion created a serious soul

The complexity of sensitivity is
inherently suitable to insecurity

Mashed I that fruit most zestful
most succulent?

Gnashed too, till pulp only frothed forth
until, ravaged, this lemon...

...emitted perfume most excellent
distinctive and sharp...

...now see this tree's offspring, dying
perhaps of my exertions

The killing stroke--my pleasure,
manipulation, my own.

These smells, these my hopes derived, an expectation

of expectoration, this lemon...
...dying of my attentions, releases so pulpy a life.

Such a sensation...
...fleshy, with that hint of cleanliness, asking am I yet next to G-d?

My manipulations, however so destructive,
gratifying
cannot be wrong...

These impossible hillocks are again blocking the monotone sea from my eyesight.

The curve defines the definition of something excessive, and the golden reeds soften the harsher nature of such croppings-out.

The sun burns the water in this air, as the ions thus released burn my nostrils and hair.

Balance has no frame here, San Rafael.

There's a crater where there once was a beating heart. What a clichee, no? I wonder at myself, so entirely hamstrung and for no good reason, unless perhaps the weight of an increasing experience bows me down to the servitude of the addict--an addiction to servitude to unreason.

at the millionth branching
of some tree evergrowing...never green

aquiver, full of arrows...cupid
tried to kill me with his only weapon

what grass will welcome me...falling
freely, accepting gravity

my life is not for you
anyway, what would you?

Sitting here, at Pine and Polk
watching, being folk
who passes me by...?

Shape, in so familiar form
and new
walk this corner
and escape my view

Chasing potted meat
from bus stop to stop
blondes, and their women
waiting, discussing, while eyeing

I really have become inadept as self examination. Thinking I know what I want, I may want it indeed, but I remain completely unable to account for my emotional responses. This illogic that inhabits me also inhibits me--when my lusts are at their penultimate denouement, I crave something suddenly less lusty, and the denouement falls away and awaits a new cycle.

What madness, when someone beautiful is in my arms, that I must suddenly crave their insides, and when offered, crave something outside?

What madness in the cool of a Sausalito evening, swathed in skin and sheets, lying at ease and looking into intensity, to feel so intensely the langour of breezy being?

Can I describe those lips, a firmness and a softness that parts in expectation and giving, hemmed by the lightest golden strands, a colour of ruddy so sensual that I could burst my bonds in pleasure that they will from time to time connect with mine. Can I describe the pallor of parchment laid against my brown farmers bag, a mutual warmth that takes away my heat? I describe a litany of lusty desire, and a purer desire that denies lust, and sends a shiver to my cock--laying there engorged but unused. I descry that other pillar, solid and promising, and penetrating; I do not cry for it, or decry the lusts of it, but wish for something less potent, because my latent potency is too great to be borne with any reason, and irrationality has led to hurt, to perdition--just as would logic anyway.

And so I remain torn, by reason, and illogic; each entwined like two similar gendered bodies, in sinful illogic, and levitican oppression, from within, and without...

placid, like a winter-frozen pond my scalp draws eyes voracious views are my reward for lack of hair interesting, how populations are fond of well presented guise spacious pews in the house of the lord oh. do beware rancid thoughts are held as bond under hair, how nice... however can it be the word for which y'all care strands thin and long compete to raise their consciousness above y'alls do you also dare? as a scream is a sound so too silence and if you only would be so aware of the meaning of profound meaninglessness you might've fool'd me