Her Catching Eyes

Her catching eyes attract as fire in hearth,
alighting on myself a burning lust;
the pub, the people, places, all of Earth,
vanish. She smiles. I smile. Her eyes, of trust,
down-turning, shine. Her face, her features, glow
like understanding God exists. This dare
I'll take, and she as well: I rise and go
to her. And she, she waits for me; to where
we meet and find that private space. My hand,
it has a need, without command, to touch,
caress her female style. We talk a grand
unworded stream of wish. Of heat, and much
in guile, she moves her dancing female curves,
and taunts herself as all that life deserves.

My lust, a violating fire of force,
can burn from silent calm in dark forlorn
to whims of torment striking out. A course
to deepest guilt, perhaps, but I was born
this way, and love this way, I must. That rare
courageous one, I seek, a phoenix from
the gulls, who gains her smaller death in fear
and suffered flames: we'll share our burning wrong.
But here, with catching eyes, I fear my lust
unchecked could cause a grievous hurt; a bird
of fire is rare indeed. Alight, I must
infer her beaten path. I'll risk her spurred
to disappointed euphemistic hate;
its worse to curse a gull the phoenix fate.

So evolution's gift to me is like
mass market beer, unsubtle tasteless flow
of fizz to rue the morning after, spiked
with dreadful chemistry to lay me low
for years. Well, balls to that, I'll go without,
it isn't worth the grief. There's better things
to do with life, of that I have no doubt:
create with deep technologies, or swing
a nifty business deal, reflect it all
in art, explore the world around us, look
to God's creation, see that life is small
and weak, relax alone and read a book.
A shallow life, a loneliness, the head
the only thing. The empty heart is dead.

"SubVerse" published in Spring 2k2.

image: po

Dylan Harris

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop

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