Shall such perfection poised skyward
Be tossed amongst the Gods themselves; displayed,
and cast, spinning, into Heaven….
Here, these colours in secret dost thou touch;
Here, in reddest violet I thou pursue;
Yet only black as night, and yet as blue
That thou, my bright, my shadow, painted much.
And here, the spectroscopic span is such;
And here, chromatics some might misconstrue;
Unknown, such hues have painted far too few;
As whitest white is not so grey a crutch
To magnify protection’s light of worth.
And worthy light, prismatic as the sun,
Shall stream as bright toward golden compass points;
And venerable shades shall then unearth,
When newer hues are finally outdone,
Our touch as art–as colours–us, anoints.
all cooked down…
like white cane sugar…
I curl my tongue around…
and swallow slowly…
I feel it slide…
like something sweet…
caressing me inside…
all the way…
Say not thou knew the nature of a man,
Whilst knowing not the nature of thy thought.
Dost not thou know such thought is of a plan
Which not thine own, should one day be untaught?
Though thou art vaccinated well against
The recognition of such ill intent,
Thine own cognition likewise is dispensed
Away from that such thoughts misrepresent.
But who then are thy lords, that shan’t thou see
Such twisting evil as through thee hath spun?
What are such words, as should so guarantee
That never shall such evil be undone:
Such lies, as evil men have told to thee;
Such damage, as their serpent’s words decree.
To a girl, not Sue:
To a girl, not even Sioux,
Will she sue, to know?
For this thou speak, though doubtful would suppose,
Nor hesitate obliquely to confess.
Regarding friendship still, thou might obsess
Beyond all compass; thrill-swept, as the throes
Wherewith to cloy thyself so rapt, express
Thine own determined joy. But not oppose
Desire desire‘s object might impose.
Conspired and familiar, this excess:
Unnamed delight, and wicked to implore,
This: framed–as though for art, or to explore,
Or greater havoc know–it would appear
Unleashed, a glow one nary could ignore
In life’s brief curtain: coy, intent, sincere
Thou wouldst covert revere; but not adore.
When I write of it
That I tend to hesitate
Still; so intimate,
But one of beauty
Is not an object of shame:
The human body.