lycanthrope Lust is not a sleeping face,
it is never whole.
Life is never complete,
like writing can be if we pretend.
leave meandering space alone
let your precisions rest.
forget what mystics see,
my baby sees a game of hopscotch
in my chest.
It's easier than the infinite.
So we use the word end frequently,
because it allows us use of the word
beginning whenever we want.
we yearn for a resting place for our
visions- a back glimpsed in a full body mirror, an arm's taut sensations, a faces slight pain/pleasure distinctions in lips unabashedly disclosing teeth, surrendering to their subtler pressure -
we offload our minds turmoil onto a sleeping face.
A face temporarily free from ends
and beginnings, holding
calmly heaven
and hell.
And as the futile words day and night
exchange once more,
a sleeping face holds
lust and love
still for the theatrical applause
of sinners and saints.
It is the one way we can never ever ever see ourselves, the one absolving
posture. we pray for our illusions.
we understand that the stiller we are,
the more labored our motion.
we paint attractive fluidity
onto the inertia of a sleeping face.
And we feel like gods for all our lust.
We have the gall to claim it,
and gasp as a face wakens strange
to us,
as our lust bounds to
the deserted corners
of morning.
Dismembers what is written,
from the outside in.

wake up wake up, show me what has changed in the vulgar tests of dreams.
phil today 020729
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