She said that she was the mother
Of another creation in her mind.
Pregnant possibilities were born
From not getting what she wanted.
The last time we made fires crack
And briars stack
Was when the sizzles flowed
Like juices on frying pans.
Every instance was talked about
In such a suggestive way
That everyone involved wanted to say it...
But it was kept below the surface...
And the surface tension developed
Like matter on the scapes of Mercury.
It was sheer plasmic phantasmagoria...
Making like conundrums
Under the skins of percussion drums
Made for instant access past the sound barrier
And echo chambers of ear drums.
With these few lines
I leave a space in your imagination
To ooze the rest of what you want...
What you want...
It gives you both lack and fulfillment.
It makes for an easier slide
Up into a space that longs
For an addition to itself.
Such a pickled tinge.
Like a tiny death in throes of joy.
Skirting around fickle pleasures
Only makes for a lexicon of sin.
Like a fire consumed with itself,
Demonically wanting more fiber to satiate itself.
Fires always want more,
And, in exchange, they light your way,
Therefore telling tantalizing stories of truth.
But only bit by bit by bit by bit...
eVan–––February 14th, 2011
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