Even JANE understood
as the underwriters conferred,
that they are not dead
if we can feel them, nor
will they die if we can compel them.
And that to snatch and quell chaos
was the root cause of impulse,
its primal urge. It pays us
in the way that like minds converge
and keeps its graces simple.
And that you never get to
Heaven hanging on to the vines,
but to the veins. Which drains
what drips into the chalice of
symmetry's loose and ample chains.
Drunk from a cup which washes itself
after wine and saliva have
been exchanged. Expunged
from the lips, before they merge.
A shrine to grains, a waterfall,
a thrust of the hips,
a fig that falls in its own sweet time,
like the confessions of those clergymen
who are always on the verge.
Like a leaf falls in free verse,
while looking for validation in rhyme.
And then, where
is 'them' in the absence
of adrenaline? In the vortex of
crucible, at the wellspring
of phenomenon's wake,
at the doorstep of moratorium,
and in the decisions a woman had to make.
Though things were good,
the jungle might destroy your mood
if far too many creatures stirred
and fled their tracks to further brood:
A PURGE ! (and then a shake),
As and when it feels
it should,
was far less likely than to
find it rude, and stuttering
like a beaten bird, whose beak
was broken nightly. The roots
of insurrection sprouting from seeds
that are sown and known for debt,
Image only paralyzing what it
does not genuinely reflect (and rightly).
Jane claimed Tarzan harped at his herd
and broke her clutch. That
she'd have sued him but he
wasn't worth much. Though she fainted
still when she fell beneath the musky
smell of his tainted touch, whose barrels
blazed beneath his chest when his temper
burned out slightly,
which guaranteed her rush.
It seems absurd:
Temptation shows no distinction
between Gods and men, and
only the wind separates US from THEM.
Gasping and grasping at finger foods
and coughing on hands crude
knuckles deterred, and often on a whim.
As regret feathers for a final surge,
a trapezoidal free fall twist where
guilt informs collusion, while snapping
at her quilted wrists. And forgetting
the catcalls she might have heard
while knitting in her seclusion.
A lady did what she could,
blocking out the sunlight
with cleavage and grapes,
as she swung past the lewd
in her neighborhood.
Who hung on her every word
from Sophocles to slur,
from limelight visions
to twilight blur,
that fell through her ragged drapes
and challenged what shapes she could
not yield.
Her vines once fractured, worn frayed
by contusions.
She braids them now into her hair
and as they occur,
bleaches the intrusions.
How slowly the amber fields
turn the grieving embers that
scorch the earth, into bloodlines
the bitter larvae can never heal.