20191210.0430

It is a hydra
Growing heads to replace and succeed
Every one I lop off
And the marrow rises to meet the new need
And though I stroke mightily again and again
The task is never done
And I cannot take the time away to light a fire
To find a brand to sear the stalks
Lest the many mouths and teeth take me
Rip me apart into the bloody chunks
They seek to have consumed
It is all I can do to keep in stasis
But more heads press upon me
More eyes stare at me to find a weakness in my defense
And they will soon uncover such a thing
Unless another
Mightier than I
Can defeat their own foe
And come to my aid
But I know not whom I would call
That could hear me over the din

20191209.0430

Ranting, he claimed
Some other was playing us all
Like a fucking flute
And I have to wonder
Why a flute is seen as easy
Is it because it is so often in the hands of women
And women
Of course
Cannot do the difficult things
Because putting up with men is so easy
Of course
But while it may be the case that
To make a certain shaft sing when blown
Is no hard thing
Or not hard long
It is not an easy thing to wind a flute
To carry it as it must be borne to be played well
With arm upraised and flute held straight
For the hours
And hours
And hours
That even the barest beginning of playing well demands
Note that the instrumentalists
Though they complain of flutists far from seldom
Never tell the jokes of them they do of drummers
And the drum is a better thing we're played like
Being beaten about the head
Or banged, often and loudly

20191208.0430

Strange tears of joy fall from a single eye
Where one stands alone and looks out from the thatch
Wherein the pouch emerges, as well
Strands clinging to it but not hiding it from view
Any more than the single sentinel who sometimes bows
And sometimes stands to stiff attention
Bidden or otherwise
What lips will kiss such a standing one
Lead it away from sorrow to a happiness that gushes forth
A drilling well
Take those tears away when they come again?

20191207.0430

Boreas may be ever ready to blow
And you may be desperate indeed to be blown
But you should still be wary:
The North Wind bites.

20191206.0430

Let me be your Notus
Coming up from below
To bring you warmth and moisture
Through what my mouth does
No cold Boreas or callow Zephyr
Nor yet dull Eurus of whom few songs are sung
For though I gladly greet you at the dawn
It is after the sun has set that I would see you gladdest
Caress every bit of you bared to me
Or press against you strongly

20191205.0430

The door will not open for me
Not more than a crack through which I can
See and
Hear and
Smell enough to intrigue
But I cannot fill my belly from it
Or my heart with aught but sorrow
My knuckles bleed still from
Knocking so long at it;
I will leave off to let them heal while
I go where I am welcomed.

20191204.0430 "Putting Out"

Pumping away with one shaft or another gripped firmly in a strong right hand
That has known many such in its time
Spraying traceries that others might take in
And maybe bringing in a bit of cash for it
Or opening wide and taking in what is on offer
Letting it get deep inside before it empties
And slips away, much diminished, from its former stature
Leaking out before it can find its intended use
Leaving panting and sweating and many crumpled sheets behind

20191203.0430 "Le Petit Morte d'Arthur"

A boy was bidden, before those gathered 'round,
To pull on the pommel and push it in again,
Slide into the sheath what had stood within it,
Take in teenaged hands a typical thing
A Viminal vagina might find valorous.

20191202.0430

The weather outside is cool
But my eyes stare into the desert winds
And I feel their febrile heat within me
It is usually dry here
But not to the point of being a desert
Yet
And I would be no nomad could I avoid it

20191201.0430

Come and melt with me
Ice flowing into water
Let me bathe within
Washing my face in the stream
Rising from deep-rooted spring