byLauren Hynde©


I summon the muses, the women, the lovers.
From silence I summon little-death-rattles of sound as it speaks,
as it captures the essence of chromatic, atonal, pentatonic songs.
I demand for a refuge to stash in my volumes, my memories,
sonorities, textbooks, aggressions, world-view philosophies, bones.

I am torn, as the night settles in, between drinkers of fire,
of acid, of blood,
of lazy arousals in mornings of cold.

There are differences of texts, of souls, of paths,
of long readings and shouts.

To luck, leave no place.

In the twilight, I linger on shapes, on clothes, on skins.
On lips that warm up the tenderness.

There are passionate dresses and lipsticks
that inflame faces in search of blood-lacquered lips.

I prefer your eyes. They are the path I choose.

The fire.


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