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Date Posted: 17:00:00 12/02/99 Thu
Author: Patti
Author Host/IP: dialup14.pcras1.igateway.com / 207.44.26.14
Subject: Echoes
In reply to: sisyphus 's message, "flower search" on 12:40:03 11/30/99 Tue

> looking down you pronounced me a man
> and i picked three flowers
> to spend your life.
>
> the winding tunnel, or drain is it?
> what game is mine but your leftovers.
> i am your correction, your put out fire.
> listen to me sing and i will
> lick your wrinkles.
>
> touch this, bring me divinity
> as i torch your pyre with a distorted smile.
>
> bow to the retinue of my smell
> croak and compel towards adventure,
> this suction will hold groundless
> until the final departure from sorrow--
> the ceremony of miniature weddings,
> a nonsense vow, your last shower.
>
> a red hot softness is your gazebo,
> the fiery duet, the biting pretense.
> jiggling delusion you possess
> spread midair between repulsion
> and a collapsible seesaw
> bent over a vibrating tuning fork.
>
> taste our horizontal dance
> this tumultuous disrobing conscience
> whispers to your nibbling lobe.
> your canine jewelry twinkles
> before the throes of intrusion
> of your powdery pride.
> this handholding game,
> dearest to the material pressures.
>
> the tunnel, or drain is it?
> plugging your dreams from bleeding,
> you are utilized and placed in memory.
> your faking anticipation of a home
> cuffed by the accelerating insanity
> mocks the submission of your name.
>
> i am your smaller feet
>
> when i am pronounced
> i will bring three flowers
> and your life.


Looking up, you vowed combustion,
three flowers on a pyre, and I was
sucked against my will into a divine mystery,
A coffin without ends, there is no escape
from your acerbic tongue which
licks my face and strips my conscience
until at last my dreams bleed through
and you taste the sorrow of your divinity.

It is you who is repulsed as now you see
for the first time your need of the games
to justify your existence, our fiery duet
reduced to ashes, and your distorted smile
collapses by my smaller feet.

Anticipation, once red hot, now cools
in the icy realm of a vacant gazebo
and whispers of what could have been
echo your name, pronounced
by my life.

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