Dissipation

Nothing after you
Idealized soul and goddess
Of pagan beauty

Flexed muscles of you
Surge in me
The current of loveliness
Stirred in me

Your form like Venus
After you meaninglessness
I sit, waiting for my gods

Tell me what to do
Have you left me
After that climax of years
After I've tasted that honey

I would find another love
To get excited with
But no such carnality stirs

Should I renounce lust after you
Nothing again to come close
Should I seek the Buddha now
Some internal eternal truth

The dissipation of the self
No longer one in you

04.08.13

This is not England

Not far off England - rainy morning of drip and cockerel chuckle, sipping coffee, wondering where the exoticism went.  Then monks glowing orange, like shooting stars, stride across my vision, holding umbrellas, all serious and devout, or longing - who knows what goes on in their minds?

I feel quite good after a night of light drinking - thinking - after some light arguing. Even a light supper of sweet coconut souped noodles and chicken - Hmm, I eat the sister of the one who wakes me - always the little kick in the gut to keep me going - inebriated buffoonery, verbal jousting with the blunted tongue of drunkenness - blunt and unskilled but for learned patterns in past wakefulness.

I think I need a love affair as I sit here on the step - an Aka tribeswoman, perhaps, all warm and treacle-like, plump cheeks and radiant smile, tongue ululating and oscillating, an instrument of song lulling and luring me, gentle ropes to draw me in and then snatch tight.

I would do your bidding for some romance - to enter into your dark mysterious world, black and lovely, us in our hole of communion, dirty and close to the earth. The smell of soil and rotting - fermented leaf.

I would dig your vegetable patch, brush your hair, blow on your neck, caress the strain of the day from you.  We would tend to our duties.  I would learn your noises - you mine - and we would laugh.  Exoticism you are not all bad - mysteries and blindfolds - the slow revelation of two souls -  like a slow boat to China.

Extending exoticism - rainy morning, pitter patter, laughter, dutiful men and women in PVC ponchos, umbrellas and flip-flops, purr of motorbikes, and the stamp and thud of the making of papaya salad beneath canvas, a stone's kick from the splatter of traffic and the heavenly precipitation, and the young woman's giggle at the wetness of her life, and my thoughts upon the wetness of mine, here upon the step, as I try to spark the exotic with coffee and a morose stillness.