She’s a wordsmith in multiple tongues
but music is her first language.
Her sonatas animate fireplace phoenixes.
The finger ballet drifting from her piano
has hornets soaring
as serenely as butterflies.
Those soothing digits are Eden,
in a vast moonscape.
Her gently cascading melodies
are the uber escape.
I yearn to listen to her heartbeat
as she kneads my nape.
In her presence,
ancient ruins rise to their former glory
and deserts turns to wetland wonderland.
Slumlords value their bloated empires
above extinguishing poverty’s fires.
Where are the maverick biographers?
Journos have become stenographers!
Corporations craft election slogans
to hypnotize the dimmest bogans.
More sophisticated emotive talks
are educated peoples tuning forks.
May the pathetic lies be superseded,
real policy info is all that’s needed.
In a world where corrupt is a kind label,
I dream of genuine cards on the table.
Every ceiling is a labyrinthine oil painting
teeming with extra terrestrial orgies.
The walls are panoramic woodcuts.
Stepping into those mountain scenes
is as conceivable as
strolling into the masseuse crowded sauna.
Every stage is a marble chessboard
adorned with crystal armies.
Upon their gleaming surfaces,
fembot strippers re-enact legendary epics.
In dim light
they’re indistinguishable from flesh and blood.
The table dancer’s nipple tassels
are as opulent as the Taj Mahal.
After laying eyes on her glamorous glutes
God dropped her cosmic chisel in disbelief.
In the hallway
lingerie models frolic on inflatable fortresses,
their skirts billowing like parachutes.
The bookcases are mahogany ballerinas
spinning like manic frisbees.
Every balcony is a carnival ride
rotating as swiftly as Jupiter
after sixteen jugs of coffee.
Who has been there just once?
A connection as fragile as a pansy
in the path of a Panzer
is snipped by the mandibles of your almighty schedule,
or someone with a Mercedes,
a six pack and a cash stack.
Opportunities as fake as the moon walker
and his papier mache face,
lay Sequoias across my gold brick road.
When will the mirage catcher
banish the illusion thatcher?
My fingertips explore the contours of your cheeks
with the wonderment of an astronaut roaming an exoplanet.
I fondle your folds with the fascination
she examines Andromedan fossils.
In the mystical maze of our collective gaze
we join that Goddess of travel.
In her biospheric bubble
we relieve her of her pressure suit
and pleasure her for Venusian days.
In the valley,
chainsaws roar like banshees lacerated by laryngitis.
“You’re going the wrong way,”
say mist shrouded cliff faces
painted red and black with torn corpses.
Landslide scarred trails
as coiled as suspension springs
guard windswept summits.
Nine inch thorns lurk in wheel ruts.
Weary travelers ascend on foot.
Before a hearth as old as mastery of fire
they mistake mischievous fungus
for a familiar delicacy.
Ceilings become floors
and the walls gateways to sensations
more familiar to bat scorpions
politely sipping the blood of platypus platoons.
The weary wanderers see the universe
through the eyes of supernovae,
and goblins on toad back
in the marshes of Merble.
In this enchanted hovel,
the five senses are merely the opening line
of an epic.
I felt as twisted as a plait,
as directionless as a jellyfish,
as drained as a sponge
left to rot in the dunes.
My muse had been missing for countless moons.
The girl in the library reanimated her.
She was as focused as Buddha,
as odd as Lady Gaga on LSD multiplied by three.
Every psychedelic wonderland in the universe
swims into this dimension
through her tears of mirth.
Icy needles cease before the bucket is filled.
Dressing with eyes on the clock.
Bursting through the door like a riot squad.
Legs pumping, slipping, sliding
– rain-washed tarmac
shines like the Milky Way.
Accelerating as frantically
as a gold medal favorite in fourth.
Lungs desperately dragging oxygen
from diesel stained fog.
At the lights,
the bus is as still
as the corpse in the storm water drain.
Mercifully the doors fold open.
Aeons into the journey,
the work cancellation message arrives
as undetected as a ninja.
The kettle is hotter than lava.
and her pillow still warm.
Upon a coffee table as utilitarian as a cardboard box,
Morning Glory protrudes from a 1915 Coca Cola bottle.
Washington damning headlines
are as moist as the President’s eyes.
An abandoned chess match dominates the kitchen bench.
There’s puddles in the potplants.
The surveillance swarm can’t tell the eight ball
from the white.
Airport, bus terminal, taxi stand, car rental agency?
Which drain could could the whistleblower be navigating
like an Einsteinian rat?
Which forest swamp might she be drifting through
on a camouflaged barge?
Nobody knows which escape roulette to vet.
The dull, lifeless eyes of smiling billionaires
gaze from palace balconies to manicured gardens.
The impish grins of dumpster diving urchins
decorate the world like triple rainbows.
Their rucksacks are their mansions.
Is optimism visions of overflowing goblets,
or savoring the condensation
on an empty glass?