eternal effeminate
do men needs must still be so afraid of tigers,
that for a fascination to ward off them nightily creeping by
they made half-reveiled sigla of divinities out of women?
the need we have for flowing tears and skirts...gauzy, quelling things
hiding some hollows sharp and capable of maiming beneath it?
yet we derive hence too the all-generative---full of moments of energy
that fulcrum of wonder-spirit uplifting the carnal
from act of filling the absence...either
in a rose-tinted, deep and stolen kiss
"a being-there-in-that", or "-in-this" too which is a line of enquiries
by way of the rough updrawing of a woman's cataracted skirt?
eternal effeminate: a puerile fop for propping mankind's eternal moral recreation-wise?
what is this and that childish, so very childish pleasure descended thereof
from all those fallen, broken fragments of snuffed-out dream pieced together--
I saw vaguely rolling down like snowballing dandruff-flakes from the orange skirt of a woman
an orange, skirt, pock-fretten, and imprinted with the flaming, divine death too --but losing something daily nonetheless?
a smooth, man-devouring skin-tiger under rose-dimpled pitfalls,
of sudden horripilation, erected pain that thus speeds and hides away beyond
the blue, mountainous horizon of lingering memories each day
thus taking away the day's lingering despair through those dandruff-gusts
and leaving only the abandoned kills behind dusk's heavy veil
that then from the leftover by the feet under the dress,
I scrape by the warmth of my whole livelihood
and have stocked up all those unpartable viands of life?