i dream dreams of painting forests, (a Monet canvas)
admiring my own stunning work and chortling at
the genius of it -
i flock to my solitude and my watercolors
and dream of the wet oils, longing to hold them
in my clutching grasp; maybe working wet clays, spinning
i grasp firm & taut - stiff. (pottery for your ass)
i walk in those dreams like vagabonds sojourning
yesterday as a child in waiting, yearning
to fly with the silhouette
of wing-shadows. i lurk in the midst,
the mist of hope. i bask in it.
he stalks me. he watches and loves me?, contemplating
my flight? he contemplates my flight
lustily, lustfully wanting
my soul-song. and steadily i sing.
i sing like the melody of infamy, the
caged-bird an afterthought yearning too, to
burst into simultaneous ecstasies of orgasmic flight
of 747-type propulsions of freedom. FREEDOM.
whilst flying-dancing-singing I stalk him fast
like cicadas of the South. like the Concord I sing
the hum of engines to him with hope
that he will feel my song and sing back, telling
me, ordering me, begging me
to tango a sympathetic dance in white shoes
and rub the floor with them
and his black feet. i sing. and sing i
steady, "hear my song and love
me way far the way i need
to be loved and caress my silky
sheen with tender whispers
of something good. tell me
something good! tell me how
your lust watches me, admires me, adores
me. (my solitude a Miles Davis piece;
my crafty oils a
she-sweat sweet & bitches brew. tell me a dream -
share me a dream; love me a dream
of something G-to-the-O-to-the-O-to-the-D-type good.
and then…"
let's be bad together
daddy.