another proffesional begger
the saxophone gathers up its dreams in match boxes
I could swear that I have memories only of you
flying our nights with sales hunting the presence
of a sure morning
an antropomorphic indian dance of pure dreams
inside one midnight
if we didn't know we could dream
would we dream?
Like water
on a thousand-petalled flower
untouched by sin, above de mud
its head held high
pure and undefiled in the sun
its mist whole world illuminates
with golden blue
right within your heart
the egg of gold
like a brilliant
rising from the bosom of the water
Daughter of the Ocean of Milk
fearless enough to wrest
the secrets of Life and Death
on the silence ward
we tip-toe in
words
dressed like wounds
and fiddle with
spots
where the chin
hits the chest
repeatedly
incessantly
stretching them
wide into
smiles
over milk teeth
until tongues
lay dry
as prunes
love is brutal with us
these days
and you know
when you feel my thoughts
hunting yours
in the blue white of the morning
you’re right
we are not
what we fear the most
not even those unhappy dolls
of the 21st century
running in meaningless circles
but rather what we miss
when we use reasonable absurdities
to justify and apease
the horrific need
for each other
when you feel my thoughts
hurting yours
in the red dark of the dusk
and you glow in
those nights
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