In the city where each house
Writes on its walls
Of unknown Joan of Arcs,
There in the Chastity-Zones,
Of moral-company houses,
The silence of the devilish nights
Is destroyed by the whimper
Of deflowered virgins!
He was a potential traveller.
Early one morning,
When beads of dew were held
By the blades of grass,
And he could blow his favourite smoky breath,
He told the lady of his dreams
He had the urge to feel her warmth.
He remembers when he had played with naked feet,
Someone took him up and cuddled him
Into the warmth of her body.
It still evokes the precise feeling,
That was synonymous with love
He can feel a guilt-ridden love like that.
He knows his dreamlands are chilly,
And he fears
The touch would ruin the journey of his dreams.
He gently passes the designed house
The abode of his stone muse.
His mouth then crafts and blows
Rings of smoke that emerge slow.
Words which follow words more
Occupy his mind and create power.
Life is like the speckled sky.
He hangs his head as fate defied.
The man beneath his thick-skinned crust,
Struggles in the dark confinement,
To assert with a power dormant,
Conspiring where the lava boils,
And remain potentially dangerous!
I have known
when I have thrown
the imposed outer layer;
and I ran, grinned, sung within you, into you, enveloped by you,
and I have felt you…
upon every pore, each vein and each curve.
I shivered in my elemental garb,
caressed by the three elements,
hidden, protected, fearless and beyond shame,
I spread my arms like the wings
moving past human vision.