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much argue about nothing.

The tips of my fingers are the
forging expansions of a
lover’s oily grip on
stubborn tense
shoulders.

Comforting your frame with every
slip and glide grasp they can.
Hints of desired massage
wrapped in self-assuring
tactical brush rituals
of soft touch.

Your floured skin reminds
sardonic stained bones
of textured ether pelts.
Stretched thirsty
upon defeated
armies of dry
confidence.

The white lie fallacies arrive
with no true aim tonight.
It, my will, insults your
platform, your pride,
your opinion,
and side.

While I feel compassion
is literally fluid....

The hours I dwell on your cocksure
faulted confusions fall short
of the tall moments
I remain so strong
for the tomorrow
drenched wet in
songs of you.

Review Request (Intensity): 
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Comments

And the rest of it which is fantastic. You have quite a mind!

The concrete form belies the fact that it reads aloud gorgeously.
Quite an achievement.

There is something missing though. It is difficult for me to put my finger on it but perhaps it feels more clever than honest. Yeah, that's it. This is a poet's poem, and I appreciate it as such. Not a gut love poem, which is fine by me, they are usually aweful.

cheers,
Jess
Neopoet Directors

a fiery latin poet that loved to argue. A poet that wrote wild abstract smatterings which stank of Sylvia Plath's angst. I wrote this to try and reach her. So that she would understand how hard I wanted to be at peace with her and how wonderful I thought she was despite the constant attempts to engage me in battle. You did a great job picking up on the fact that it had to be overly clever to impress her. It just had to be. But I would call it a failure....as she never got the point and I have sworn to only dance with lovers that can communicate without constant escalation. The form comes from two sources. I felt like jumping off a cliff whenever we would fight. Longing for escape and freedom only to land on another ledge. I also wanted each stanza to de-escalate. Much like the arguments that I wanted to defuse. So they get thinner and thinner. Thanks for reading.

_Danny

author comment

but I can appreciate why Jess liked it so. It is clever and even subtle. Just not my cup of tea.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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