[Something I wrote a very long time ago and updated....]
They intertwine, these sentences of molten fire,
deeper, secret, carnal desires,
screams, stifled by echoes in an expanding gyre,
I follow dreams, of London, of Yorkshire.
Everything said before, wearily watches a has been,
tattered soul in black typeface,
purveyor of crevices in a dream.
Sell it! Sell it! With a squirt gun and a mace,
Sometimes trite praise settles like a weary sheen.
In the head eddies of lava,
flow through the blood,
crusted uncertainty of a volcano fuel cups of kava,
and eruptions the color of mud,
some settle ash in my brain – m.a.y.a…
Words I don’t understand…
But their power holds and sometimes paroxysms of laughter,
reverberate against a thick tympanum that withstands,
smooth voices like honey, lashing rain, and the loneliness of despair, now and ever after…
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