Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

I cry and cry and sing

Fighting tight young holes
standing in them
singing
‘kind find my way out’
seeing a kind of luminous
sunrise glow on a horizon
encircling like warm arms
in an embrace
of total abandonment
wake alone
running down a beach
under a blue moon
screaming her name
like you mean to tear
the tears from each syllable
each particle of air formed in her name
a spear through the chest,
caught in the throat
and you keep running
nothing stops you
matter you leave
and the spirit
protects.


The things I want to do to you
lying there on that couch
helpless
relaxed,
gently eased into an oblivion
of sleep and sounds
with eyes resting softly shut
beds of eye lashes
humming
she sings to me
how to I walk on her
grass, with out crushing a blade
she has a fence so high
around her, I cry
cry she keeps me out
i cry
and cry
and sing.

It’s all about the cunt
how big
and how to get in
she’s so tight, it really does kind of hurt
I’m not that big, but to be big
is left for me to be,
so I try. It affects my life, is a pillar
of my reallity,
my spirits reality
my intellects realm.
My magic circle.

My media.
My practice
My art.
What art
I practice no art.
That is the first art.
The art that disappears
running everything.


running everything
with an eye,  backwards
some voice in the flesh
will I listen.
To Who am I listening.

And I want to screw
I want to screw myself
intimately but with a surprise
I would never have had guessed could ever happen.
This is not me, this is you.
You I want to meet, accidentally
by mistake.
I want you to be a discovery
where I suck you in through a straw
and my tongue chases you around my teeth
as my saliva absorbs you like chance dissolving under
true contact. Fire to fuel.