- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Stranded
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The jungle's on fire. There's
cracking of boles and
the lianas' whiplash;
splitting wood's gunshots ring out
across the fevered river. I try
to make it to the beach, narrow
no man's land between
the furnace terror and the wide
unchanging water's cheerlessness
to find myself stuck. There
will be no boat - just these two
unpassables, the hot interior's
fevent drive, its youth, ardour,
all the pain of desire in
scars of conflagration and
the vague blue-grey mists, deep
unfathomable longing that fades
into mere colour - pale
pinks - blues - the old ocean's
slow sadness at each new defeat...
In the doubtful distance the last
torn sail wavers and disappears.
- COMMENTS
twelveooneover 11 years agoi thought, but no, "vague blue-grey mists" even allowing for, this one pops. you got some nice distance weaving here
fevered river narrow
furnace terror
fevent drive
