I reflect with a projection,
when hearing
melodies of rhythm or
stronger
lower basses like guttural
voice chords, especially
in the dark or being on a waiting room
of a car ride,
whenever I want it or not
/
an endless dance or some
semi-tangible
image that twirls into
hot
red
rose
petals
even though
there’s no dress to whizz,
feet strong like Carmen Amaya’s
had no mercy for Iberian taverns’
dance floors of flamenco
/
watching that spectacle
always
from discarded collage views
/
of that accounting
and how no
voice is needed to direct
the melody a vector,
only let it be sung-thrung
through the heat rising
and orchestra listened to
completely, sharp motions in
the eyes of the crowd
or those who had ever considered
pondering on me like a philosophy...

Maybe such styles and asphyxiations
of rapid ragged jerkings of too sharp
notes in the air cutting
the atmosphere like a blunt knife
have got to me a long time ago,
stay ever more as visions to moves
audacious, and have been
chosen beforehand my vessel
without its decision to be turned
into something greater
in the collaboration with my own other dishes
to fit Passion.

Then - then - I always imagine - then
in all that how
any certain entity
would be looking at that,
taking it in from the outside
and what that painting of me
partly
will be made as
in their sculpted no flesh
eyes.

/
Thank you
Ladies, Gentlemen, Whoever Further
for attending
/

remembered to the birth of time
held to nothing but the play of life

remembered to the warm of day cradled to the skin
no talk of living only laughter and joy
on the lip of adventure and discovery

remembered to the excitement of friendship
created to the star and hero on the sword of imagination
neath the flight of a dream

remembered to the glow of nurture
breathed to the skip and run of little feet on earths foothold
as the close of a hug to the beat of love
holds charge on the heat of a body not being
to that there you could be found by the hide of seek

remembered to the belt of a star to eve
as you make the first move on the kiss of sunlight
and touch soul to the flesh of sleeps fade
into the light of nights close

remembered to the rush of blood desire
thru the pound of a vein slipping its teeth
across the make of your naked pure

remembered to the sip of a body
thru the arc of a rainbows melt
as the ray of charge bursts open on the blister of sun
and drips to the earth of ground through the light of dust

remembered to the burn of life
held tight to the hunt of scent
gifting a rise on the black of slow heat
as the pelt of wolves prime escapes
to the prey on a red white snow

remembered to the last of kings and queens
answered to the truth of gravity
swept over the infinite mind on the lift of light
to the hand that one be hold

the wave of thought calls life
to the memory of a body in heat yet to forgot
dis charges its stigmatic pulse across the
surface of inequity and settlement

we are the spoilt ones spelt in the river of renewal
repute and delivered to the lot of time
as purse of mercy be re acquainted to divine
and the lesser more offers soul in service off hand
to near the miss of a drawn out sand

It hurts.
Your burn me from
           the
               inside
                      out.
But somehow
I find I simply
          can't
                live
                    without
you and that heat.
          Though it aches,  
                   Nothing can complete
me
    the
        way
             you
                  do.
And somehow
I find I simply
            just
                 don't
                        care
how much it hurts.
If you wish to have me
                       hurt me
         again,
I'm
    at
      your
           service.