Oimé …

… as Gesualdo'd 've
sing-spieled,
'cos you don't talk to me
no more, no more
nods, no winks, no smiles …

Why? - I know – it's
'cos I'm mad or, at
least, strange, but is that
a strong reason?
Do I like finesse, perchance?
Is it 'cos I pas-de-deux
like a ram in a chocolate shop?

Apparently, Lenny, as in
Cohen, not as in
summat - other – wrote and
wrote & wrote endlessly
(like never able to stop)
the words of Hallelujah.
You know what, Hallelujah,
I feel about that, and
I feel around that, but
not like that. And I
ain't got no monotonous
tune in my head to
keep me going on and
on and endlessly …
and unendingly … not
saying a lot.

No, this, now, I,
you perhaps, visionary,
high priestess, low
life, goodness, badness
- but who's judging,
mind – feels more like
the irrelevant, side-show
tap-dance of a … hey, aye
aye, wait for it …
irrelevant, side-show sea,
going lap, pause, lap,
pause, pause, lap,
pause, lap, pause,
pause, pause, not
much of a lap there,
pause, pause.

Put me on pause ...
to see me glide through
the sky perched aboard
a virgin beam of
light, only 2 minutes
old from the sun and
flying towards Andromeda
and small star ships
circling its most
sophisticated of semi-
solar moons, on the
hunt for beings riding
starlight, bereft of
hope that life will
ever have the tang of
pistachio on the tongue
ever again, knowing
that the unlived life
is better, or at least
a tad less embarrassing
than the felt that runs
along the tongue's mind,
the mind's tongue like
carpet under the knees
of a woman fucked from
behind and liking it
and the carpet-burn.

Stop – you're getting
ahead of yourself.

Restrain the urge to
stop, to ridicule, to revile,
or give in to it and
feel the whiplash and the
backlash and crush
the core deeper to a
Higgs Boson. Stop.
I'll show you my
jugular if you show
me yours. But you
won't, 'cos you're hiding,
like me …

oimé