I have always deeply admired the man who I
speak of in this slammed poem. |
Did you know when you penned The Soup And The Clouds, that I would fall head-over-heels for a man in another century? Prose. The Beauty of Poetry. Counting crows from the eyes of a man with an effervescence that lingers in a smile behind the fog of street lamps, vagrants, and alleyways laying drunkards down, I can but be naive nursing love for you at an old age. Today, I have five bee stings from "mowing the hedges", as they innocently swarmed about me, I cried "shit". Later, I dreamed a summer lullaby I caught from you, such a long-distance runner to dream golden slumber with. If you have already chosen your "Venus" then, let me lie down behind the bushes, egged on with a chance to see a kiss in mid-air, sighing at your gratitude for women. The alchemy of your music is crammed with politics. Oh, that I dare pick a passage to drop a few tears upon? Many have written poems, but have they withstood the test of time by coming into many hands, dusty as a star, fixing folly with dusk and a rolltop desk thick with notes for other women to breathe first light with? Send me to the moon, Charles. Let me smile at your genius awhile. I could never quite catch your steps ahead of me, too fast to straddle, too beautiful to call mine. Grease lightning with the words of memories' flowers, let me fold you softly over, biting my lip, knowing you have reached the serenity one so often lacks. |