Writhe in anticipation, as the drum roll
of a miss-shot vein passes muster for grace.
Arrive with bow and needle in hand,
blind as a dog in camp, cold to the rub.
At this expense, keep to the service of pleasing.
We are easily broken, hypnotized.
Ostensibly, I know this lover,
where there are trees, forests, a path winds
to her door, finds her where anything
can be touched, teased or tortured.
Where herds have shared the bed,
and believed as a child, with tears
a lullaby, a prayer, or good lay.
Stretch out your arm, your eyes, your heart,
then repeat after me! This is a worldly affair.
Put on that dress of stone,
perennial to the cut, severe in design.
And there is nothing more than ah's and oh's...
when she responds, please be seated.
Rain makes the flesh reverberate over the degenerated clutter of fused bones forming the base of my spine, a lopsided stack of oxidized coins.
Rain makes it raw, so raw, and tender, and sensitive, like I'm in a Chinese water torture, gasping, wanting to scream out in pain.
Raining or not sometimes I stare at my sad pale reflection in the mirror trying not to feel silly that I am simply another simpering, weak modern man struggling hard not to cry.
Sisyphus (that bastard reptile) smirks as he crawls and claws, snaking his serrated boulder up and down my wobbly worn out useless old spine.