Snow cones and penguins and chairs
Goulet
Posts: 918
Sometime before the morning
when it's still moonlight-dark
and the green grass is just wetting itself,
and the wind is coughing and choking,
and rolling over to wake up
and poke its lover in the chin,
there is a moment of quiet,
and only the bus horns
and gas guzzlers
and heroine needles
can be heard.
It happens to be when I wake up
with lint in my eyes and naval,
and a scratchy throat
from the dry-heat heater,
and I take a drink of your bedside water,
and turn back to you
and see your white-smooth skin
and your jet-black hair
and your breathing motions;
up and down and in and out,
and it's peaceful.
It's the ebb of the ocean,
and the sleep of penguins
in the ice caves on the Antarctic tundra,
where the wind is also still and quiet
and just turning to sip some water
or make a cherry snow cone
that tastes like your lips
in the winter-night
when I kissed you for the first time,
nervously leaning over
with my heart beatbeatbeating,
and my blood on fire,
and my lips on fire,
and my skin pricking and tingling,
and with all the sensations from the ridges of your lips,
and the hills and slopes of your body,
and just two hours ago we were
in front of your mirror connected somehow,
sitting together in a creaking wooden chair,
waiting to explode under our sweating-gyrating bodies
with your head thrown back
and your eyes a-blaze,
and we looked right in the mirror,
a Chinese throwing star symbol
or a Buddhist temple signal
or a Hollywood movie poster
or a Woody Guthrie album cover
or a Native American textile blanket
woven with reds and greens and blues
and turquoise and pinks and yellows
and pastels and primaries,
in designs like stars
and crescent moons
and sunshower-greylight days.
when it's still moonlight-dark
and the green grass is just wetting itself,
and the wind is coughing and choking,
and rolling over to wake up
and poke its lover in the chin,
there is a moment of quiet,
and only the bus horns
and gas guzzlers
and heroine needles
can be heard.
It happens to be when I wake up
with lint in my eyes and naval,
and a scratchy throat
from the dry-heat heater,
and I take a drink of your bedside water,
and turn back to you
and see your white-smooth skin
and your jet-black hair
and your breathing motions;
up and down and in and out,
and it's peaceful.
It's the ebb of the ocean,
and the sleep of penguins
in the ice caves on the Antarctic tundra,
where the wind is also still and quiet
and just turning to sip some water
or make a cherry snow cone
that tastes like your lips
in the winter-night
when I kissed you for the first time,
nervously leaning over
with my heart beatbeatbeating,
and my blood on fire,
and my lips on fire,
and my skin pricking and tingling,
and with all the sensations from the ridges of your lips,
and the hills and slopes of your body,
and just two hours ago we were
in front of your mirror connected somehow,
sitting together in a creaking wooden chair,
waiting to explode under our sweating-gyrating bodies
with your head thrown back
and your eyes a-blaze,
and we looked right in the mirror,
a Chinese throwing star symbol
or a Buddhist temple signal
or a Hollywood movie poster
or a Woody Guthrie album cover
or a Native American textile blanket
woven with reds and greens and blues
and turquoise and pinks and yellows
and pastels and primaries,
in designs like stars
and crescent moons
and sunshower-greylight days.
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
God bless you. "- jayscott
Nice, Goulet!
muffled breath fogging my thoughts
minds adrift
salvaged the damp clay for this week's ration
we'll be here all day crowning jesters in our mansion
thrown of thorns shackled brevity
clear-minded foes in the bottom of my glass
nonsensical drinking, bleeding, this bloodletting won't cease
swinging swings swung too close to two treehomes and brought the braches down, down, down.
God bless you. "- jayscott