This is my LAST Sunday
this is my last day of THIS
This is the moment when that over there,
that then
that when sometime soon
ends AT the time IS becoming

There it is, just one touch feels golden rivers
fills me with a sense of the bewildered spirit
rippling through waters of longing, lust, love

it is the daily zest of those fated with the
lucid dream of passions, who live in the filth
and grime of the day with a paradoxal joy:
feed and thrive on both and yearn to translate

it into a song
a dirty little melody
so sweet and sad any ear would beg
for more, dropping anchors deep into the heart

It is taste of the many hues of pain that
allows a grain of saccharine sweet kiss
feel like a junkies last dance, a soft
wet tongue running along the inside of
a plump lip raw

Is it is the detachment, the length of time that zings through my greens and blues with orange pops and pink sparks
the whites of the eyes, the holding of breath
wanting nothing more that to seize or be seized
the endless conquest,top of the hill, waving of flag
s’il vous plaît
s’il vous plaît
s’il vous plaît

La chanson de ressort éclate à mon coeur aujourd'hui, mes yeux miroitent avec elle. Il se sent bien de découvrir la petite joie encore.

The song of spring bursts in my heart today, my eyes gleam with it. It feels good to still discover the small joy.

The Other Spring

This isn't my spring.


In the back of the closet I think I can talk where no one can hear me, it is where I whisper into the sequined dresses and cotton shirts. Where I can turn these reds and blues into hush.

Even in sleep there is no hidden self and what pockets of sky are shared with the echos.

Still
the sun sets right at the edge of my eye
the ocean, the horizon
the ledge