Geraint Rowland
By
David Paul White
Dreams May Come
I am bathing in a certain
Youthful omnipotence. Seeking that which
Makes itself known. Desire. Hot messes. Travesties. Smoothened
Physicalities, legs trembling, scattered
Locks. Beds which reek of lavender
In the moonlight. A sweet flame is
Splashed upon the walls, candles
Empty, dancing daintily in the blue corners of
The night.
And I am bathing in this youthful
Impulse. Craving certain primeval
Reproductive tendencies, which seldom are spoken of.
Lust. Teen Aged Years and the
Inherent desires for curved hot steamed bodies.
Floral hearts. Figures beneath the immature sheets.
Ragged bodies, unknown, in triumphant pleasure
An idiosyncratic symphony of metronomic
Sound which will resonate thru the hot
Exasperation of the room. Endlessly seeking, ending the
Seemingly endless pleasures and hot
Passions of these youthful hours.
For it is known. Nothing is
Better than…
La Mer
Picturing Death,
Death on the streets.
And my soul
Floats away and
Drowns itself in `-
It has been
So long since
My brain has
Ceased to begin
The year grows shorter…
The Sea is a very simple
Place.
It is so long
And life
Is red as the
Night.
Trembles in sleep.
The cold hours
Have
Arrived.
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