I it is,
writing to you as A’ licentious Alice, a chalice, from AL by way of LA origin-ally, with houndstooth donned:
It is the sense of loving the moment. It is remembering the sensation of meta/physical love and then remembering the sensation of how it feels to lose it. That ache. That sense of how many times will they wreck me?. How many times will I play the Fool?
Again and again.
Why lose the Fool of yourself? If I killed the Fool inside to be hip, where did the real me go? With whom do you share your inner fool? Can guarding it be anything authentic?
In this mp3 and streaming world, a mix CD burned,
a cassette tape made,
breaks my heart right open. Is that why we have one?
This is not sadness; it is a necessary devouring of self.
My existential orientation continuously regenerates as at the point of origin, and I can be painfully patient; but,
does your silence actually speak: you are only useful until used?
Bemused at the thought. At you. By you.
And, a comma can change the entire meaning of a sentence: I say.
I know your way.
I knew before you showed me.
You play semantics and fancy it is a game?
Splayed pieces parsed in preparation of a preheating oven.
The intimacy of this is but the sense of mind behind it.
I understood that years ago. I learnt it in a dream.
Tonight, I feel my patience hotly boil, as though I must make it into impatience simply to show you my elasticity.
You say: I’ve been here before.
So? I’ve been here forever: I reply,
Curtly but with a curtsey.
Here, where the desire to conduct currents raises meta/physical energy in the nerve endings concealed under my skin.
What a waste to not make use of it.
I would waste that energy on you alone.
Waste it in the face of
I will howl until you howl back, to punish you.
Does that spook you,
you ghost of the man of May?
I espied your inconsistency immediately since taking my flight of departure.
It was my mistake. I should not have allowed you to let me leave. I thought I was being kind, but I was only being polite. Stay. That’s what I really meant to say or do this time.
I abide still. I stoke fires. I test the limit.
I care for you. That is all. I can unconditionally hold you(,) dear.
My love is not tethered to needing love.
My devotion is my loyalty to my beloved. You endeared yourself to me.
I desire you. Now you must suffer the cost of your own, odd charms.
It is no matter of ‘should’ you, but rather, ‘could’ you
tell me true?
If you could, I hold you(,) dear.
If you could not, I hold you(,) dear.
There is heavy magic in your air and I am magnetized.
Some integral things reduce to simple vibrations, to sounds, to sounds like bays, being transmitted through our air.
I wrote all these words first
in longhand to show you how inane I can be.
How frighteningly unafraid
you could be,
should you so choose, ewe.
Or, perhaps, your hands are tied.
Perhaps you have no choice but to be so.
I learn the record of your timeframes
Deliciously diabolical it seems: both your pleasure and your desperation.
Does it make you forget which side of the road on which you ought to be driving?
Were you just checking out your mojo?
Taking me for a ride in your fast car?
There. Am I impressed?
Can you answer this: if I told you that your heart belongs to me now, would you hold your head up high in the air?
Could you even if you wanted?
Could you even say if you didn’t?
The difference between ‘can’ and ‘may.’
Simon says he went birdwatching but only saw his own feet.
Not many birds to be seen in that scene?
Just grounded, flightless birds, you adorable dodo.
I saw a porcupine ripping out its own quills,
one by one by one,
by one at a time.
Onlookers horrified at the sight of so much blood.
The porcupine stabs them while they are stunned into stillness by the reverie-stupor of their surprise.
Slaying ampersand slain.
I see your look of discomfort at this friction.
There was a slight drizzle of rain
as I laid myself
down to sleep early this morning.
I imagined how lovely it would be to
put my hand about your pelvic flair.
The jut of your hipbone.
Cup it like an anchor to
hold me fast
The night sky was so poorly lit, that I could see
Fleeing the lack of light is not the same as seeking a light.
I raise my lantern for you tonight.
If it is lit
it is done so through and not by me.
But, for you is for whom I raise it.
A beckoning through a beacon.
Here is your
Fall, like a wave, upon me.
Surrender your summer-self and embrace the autumnal ewe, you.
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