Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

58
xvi. Kneel
Golden hours gone, nocturnes rent with
cold burn, a thousand miles from anywhere.
Tonight music shudders briefly, & again,
lashes nada’s spectacle, dead rhythms
kicked for whatever convulse remains. Nothing
true here, just days pricked for coins. Call it a life.
A passing carnival of blankness & deed.
Something yet dances out there in the shades,
dream stroke of a leaf, flame of a thigh.
Call her bitch. She responds.
Call her angel. She responds.
Wake up. To her bid a name less yawning.
Kneel. Submit. Love’s immolation. Liberation’s
ash. Wield the flame anew, call it music.
Dancing power aroar with the night.
Touch her feather. She responds.
Touch her leather. She responds.
Wake up. Someone else’s world is
eating you while she arcs & corrodes.
A rampage, a terror, the night’s floorless
embrace. Perpetual.
King’s broad minions, preacher’s tome of
nots, we listen & still slowly crack
wide. The artist barks tunefully, rests
later with cleanly brushed fur.
Kneel. Submit. Trees burn up in truth
where men mew & flee for anywhere.
My heart spits wildly for just a little content.
***
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005