7 03 2010

I lick your cobwebs and your musty
Musty, deep down there
Intimate, private and oh, so lovely parts
The cobwebs of your diary—my cotton candy
Spiced chicken laigs and heart surgery intact.

And the exact minute that eve took the apple
The deck was stacked in terms of evolution
I employ your metaphor backed up by blind ambition.

It wasn’t my fault
I like apples.

Produce Dept.

Half-steps, whole-steps
Giant Steps
And cycle of fifths rotated
Touchstone to my magnetism
Shuffled and rolling
So What?
With separate voices
Miles and trane and cannonball
Each with their styistic choices
Lilting the melody

No cobwebs on my cock
Knelt and felt with the touch
Of your metaphor’s circumference
No time for jazz and a
Mute suspicion

The melody must be played
Exactly as written

Salt Apples
Salt Apples

I’ll lick the cobwebs from your diary
Like alice falling in hysteria
Knotted over the square
Knotted over the square
Knot of not and maybe
Maybe maybe overdubbed
You are the manager of my trust
My thrust; my thrust entrusted, entwined
And rhymed with it’s cobwebs of memory




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