Monday, December 28, 2009

Capricorn wine

They dream god, where the streets below drink liquor and teams of girls flirt with the alley ways.
They dream god above the blue city, twirling in rooms, angels
in ecstasy drunk from old wine, the young ones new in wings turn and turn in Monet waltzes. Ovid's beauties dance in white heroine gowns, like virgin sex. The smiles
of the young, press against the windows and look at the red
Lights reflecting on the wet street, as the gramophone plays out to the dances.

In Capricorn wine I press my waist against her. She sways with her
curve filling out and in pushing and feeling the weight of my length. The city's lights dim and then heave into full radiance. The rise of the hotel’s moan gleams out the windows a glowing yellow softness the veranda fans out like a viola. I've heard her in the hands that hold legs and breast where lust turns pink in union. Hearts arise “god!" hold her body-by the rise of her waist the bedpost hits the wallpaper, the pages will turn and cover over are bed. We fall and die into a fairy tale and of us will come the pages of the sex of are youth that read from are hearts. I turn the pages now staring at the floor remembering what she said and the distance it takes for love to begin, like wine that charts out the constellations.

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