bicyclingfish
The Fly
Waiting
Slumber, callous lover:
in your whispers I find completion.
Shoot out somber rays from your studded eyelids
for I revel in your melancholy.
Your melodies surround me,
my mood drops down:
I am the mud to your fingers.
Play in my emotion-
Geppetto to Pinocchio,
Michelangelo to David,
God to Adam:
I am yours, and you are my bitter divinity.
Hopeless dreamers have never known a love such as this?
I am a mud puddle after your rainstorm,
sleep for you to dream in,
clean linens for your meal,
solemn hymns for your funeral.
I am your lamb to slaughter,
your Buddha to revere,
your Jesus to intervene,
your Solomon with a head on a platter:
please dance for me.
Come to this place,
whisper your fragrant words,
hum your mournful dirge,
and I will lap of your warm milk,
a kitten in from the cold winter?s night;
and I will sleep in your potato cellar,
a vagrant in the storm;
and I will wash myself with your hair, left in the drain from your shower,
obsessed with a vision;
and I will suffocate in your closet,
a child hidden with scornful praise;
and I will lock myself in your house,
keeping away enemies of your state;
and I will wait for you to return and pet me,
a kitten in from the winter?s night.
I love only you, for you are my wonderful torture.
To all others this is but a sadistic, painful poem,
but when you read it, it is a song called Alleluia!
Slumber, callous lover:
in your whispers I find completion.
Shoot out somber rays from your studded eyelids
for I revel in your melancholy.
Your melodies surround me,
my mood drops down:
I am the mud to your fingers.
Play in my emotion-
Geppetto to Pinocchio,
Michelangelo to David,
God to Adam:
I am yours, and you are my bitter divinity.
Hopeless dreamers have never known a love such as this?
I am a mud puddle after your rainstorm,
sleep for you to dream in,
clean linens for your meal,
solemn hymns for your funeral.
I am your lamb to slaughter,
your Buddha to revere,
your Jesus to intervene,
your Solomon with a head on a platter:
please dance for me.
Come to this place,
whisper your fragrant words,
hum your mournful dirge,
and I will lap of your warm milk,
a kitten in from the cold winter?s night;
and I will sleep in your potato cellar,
a vagrant in the storm;
and I will wash myself with your hair, left in the drain from your shower,
obsessed with a vision;
and I will suffocate in your closet,
a child hidden with scornful praise;
and I will lock myself in your house,
keeping away enemies of your state;
and I will wait for you to return and pet me,
a kitten in from the winter?s night.
I love only you, for you are my wonderful torture.
To all others this is but a sadistic, painful poem,
but when you read it, it is a song called Alleluia!