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By Tom Sheehan
I am all questions in this mushrooming quiet and darker of night this sound of dead foxes hanging thinly with leaves, the den not returned to the mother hunted while hunting and dogged down this deep of night, this dread act of sleeping while my mind can still wander above the wave of things can extrapolate conjure figment articulate touch, smell, know once again your musk I'd die for right now. O this instant, this eternity, for my nostrils each have memory of fingers and dry pulp beneath my nails is your residue of love I cannot manicure away, ashes of our fire.
I see suck words on lips. I see the drip of syllables phonetics of some word rock buried in you as deeply as mine sunless and miles deep past the six hundred miles an hour that our impulses travel from mind to extremities of selves to fingers of satisfaction to fingers knowledge to lips say to eyes move to pits of breast set into teeth like caraway seeds (oh, I love the working memory as my tongue worries a pit like a cavity beginning –I form words for you at the touch). What tangible ghost of nights past is near me touching like grass or a spider web not quite there who the spirit travels its hands and lips and words against my ears my self my all as if Chapman’s Homer has its speech and touches to me I, I am alone atop Darien, this abominable night though I have shares and am shared oh shared by madness oh stung by stars and simple grass.
Oh listen, believe me daughter of words, holder of the precious word rock! I am moonmaster, starriser, suncatcher, burster of cometary, yea a farmer plugging word songs but a listener of your night watches walker of your dreams the evil-doer doing done that far thin voice of a star moving on you oh dream death at morning light to have lit that incredible candle. Ah, it is lonely, the fox is dead, I hear the dogs cry. Above the clash of leaves, the horn empties its wail on wind, the den not returned to the young wait cold and hungry the burrow walls close in with cool pneumatics the ferret comes slowly at first teasing his mouth waters saliva runs oozing like sperm his back arches he tingles. Oh love, I’d love to come to your mouth, to have your lips holding me is volcanic thought furnacing. The blade of your tongue is ever merciless. Why are you so unkind to me? Why cut memory’s cut do my veins intrigue you my capillaries crawl like others crawl, except when you loose your tongue. You are mad! Mad! But I bid you, I bid you come at me once, all mouth all imagination, all energy, I would know no other night nor own one I am doomed pusher of thought darer of deeds worder of words I am doomed who such lip when such thigh take the angle of my eye lest I lose that nearing breast bring your mouth where you’ve caressed use your tongue as gallant blade my private parts to invade.
I, moonmaster master of words, roper of stars, brander of herds of Pegasus, flock beg your tongue talk, let it be known beneath your bone I love your curves and wanting nerves sleep comes now, sifting through me pushing its delights into the barest ends of me the torture of a sugar remembered thighs intersect triangle of nerves coming away slowly as a rusty sled downhill excruciatingly lovely from the pitch of parting.
Once, I shot at a doe and oh! I missed! I missed!
#Unreal #FreeVerse #Poem #Galaxies #Stars #MoonMaster #Satrriser #SunCatcher
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