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Veins of purpose

I feel the swell of your thigh
the bus motor rushing
the city swirling in lights
beyond our blue bathe
of night setting

the streetcars thick trundle
in the centre lane
the arbitrary deposit of tail
lights like lipstick blotted
in the mists

your have magic in your
veins pumping through
your heart
the bright earrings sway
the doors hiss
and the wipers bump

we will turn the clock
away on the nightstand
and listen to the music

I shall drape your jacket
on the chaise lounge
and ask you to stay
I can break the fifty
for the cab
after we burn and crash
like a tangled wreck
in LahLahLand

our love maimed
our love mourned
our treasure
drifting when the
coral dawn cold
and fired rises
above the chimney
tops and wires
full of plump pigeons
and the stuttering
neons shut off
like the stars going
out long before

I kiss your sweet
palm and in the cold
we slink off to dark
and nightmare spasms
the wide empty chasms
where we shall be

riding the crest of our
drug and the numbed
ambition of us
We are ghosts
dimming in the passion
of our hits

Editing stage: 


Always a pleasure to read a new one from you, this has strong images and a pathos throughout for the desires and disappointments and highs of life.

"The perfect woman perpetrates literature as she does a small sin: as an experiment, in passing, to see if anybody notices it - and to makes sure that somebody does." - Nietzsche

like an Esker poem to start me thinking of long lost loves, and the days of daze. I'm moved, as usual. ~ Gee

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