My eyes don't help here

My eyes don't help here, but I bring complex metaphors of passion and dialog to the surface of reasoning with unbearable gravity. Unreachable clarity. I see the foolish artist (portrayed as a young man, portrayed in his overwrought tension and manic affection) blink breaking thoughts from irises. Blink hestiation into water. Drink critical of critical. Get on with it. Get on with it. I see why-I'ms and why-you'res, whithers and wherefores. Rational logic and laughable cognitive measure-for-measure, dancing the graves away. Down in the tombs where they're dancing the graves away. I bring, he dreams, a moment to the stings, a kind of whisper to the seam between which things exist as vague machines. I bring to you my words and with it, I bear souls of truth--- "I look into eyes that have vexed all my memories, I look at the cheeks bent to twist 'round your smiles. I remember the touch of hair I did not know was even there. You have transfixed attention here and now you own a piece of me." Get on (with it). I see mirrors of waiting and the time and the tension. And my entire body creaks and groans as it wonders how she (you) she (you) will respond to my infinite please. And my flattering pleas. Written May 21st, 2000 © on Oct 20 2001 02:52 PM PST   18 • 0 • 10