Today
I woke up

With
something strange
under my skin

Deep in the core
moving around
confused

Could not tell
what it was

Like it did not
know its purpose

Wondering around

Looking for
a purpose
or meaning

Just
like
me

A sense of lightness
is what I suppose happiness could be
Not a feeling but a state of being

And at the same time
you can also feel blue

Light blue

So it doesn´t rip you apart
but quietly soothes your mind
and lets your soul unwind

When the time comes
I will leave you
locked in the closets
of your heart

There will be no words
of consolations
No letters left upon the desk
inked with my explanations

I am sure it will be the dark of night
when whippoorwills do call
For they cry into the dark
but nothing replies at all

By the time the sun stumbles in
And you reach for the sky and yawn
The dew will cover the grass but there will be no footsteps left upon the lawn

What happens after that I really
don't want to know
I will be hitchhiking down the road
keeping it on the low

Don't blame yourself for my failures
It was just that I ran out of time
And my feet were really telling me
they were sick of all my lying

So goodbye , farewell , Godspeed ,
live long and I hope that you prosper
It's time to end the intimations
and all the pain I cause her

Chancing to look through an old file, I'd forgotten the pleasures of matching wits with an intelligent man who actually has working brain cells, not just these "primal urges" 99% of men own.  I'm sick and tired of all these monkeys.  Go tell some other woman she is ****.  I wasn't dressing to please you, but me.




(sonnet #MMMMMMDXIV)


As blue skies, shadows 'non cavort from hence
Beheath the watchful eye of, own a tale
Of cloud battalions floating like to scale
Upon that purest sea frame what? I thence
Bewail Jean Yves and O! his wiser sense--
Lost on the wings of hours gone ere we'd hail
More than keen matching wits when time'd avail
Us, yes, a man with intellect's defense.
"God's gift to women," ah, I laughed as twere
Oer what he swore is merely truth, 'til who
Shall now console me, eh?  Most men in poor
'Scuse are dull blockheads, never thinking, to
A fault such beasts that only want to stir
Yes, "primal urges" oh! what shall I do?

24Jul17a

there is
a           mess
about her,

fluttering
towards  open

    space.


writhing

below pale
skin,

refusing to sit

so structurally,
so secured

in flesh.


wildly
           bending
and      swelling,


becoming

the
           savage


she so calmly
swears

isn’t there.











*-MJS