oil

and the rain drops. they tickle on my palm. and i roll my sleeves. little inkblots on my shoulders. tingling. and chiming. in the wind from the coasts. far away from the land of tides.

tonight is the dance of moon gods and rain. and the clouds, they build. like chariots of talcum. soft and brittle. the secret tales of man and rain spill across the mezzanine love. the passion of skins. and the violent crochet of womb and ivory. and in the banquet of pearls, we remember the times. we walked and walked. through pebbles of joy. by the riverside. on a cold evening in june. wine on your fingertips. tingling and shaking. like an anesthetic. the pirouette of dreams.

and as i sat on the bar stool. the wood spoke to my toes. you massage my soul and give me warmth. for they chiseled me to perfection. to please. and please. in silent antipathy. they hacked my limbs. i have lost my saliva. the saliva with which i made love to the wind. and how she danced -the wanton wind. how she danced on my thighs, and caressed my skin. but she is a widow tonight. with a hand that slips the grip of charcoal wombs. the pain has scorched her soul.

for when you are one in this pool of man. without a finger to hold. or a ring to love. think of your paint. the oil of your skin and the race of your beats. one by one, they pave that road of love. the love of desire and the desire of love. and man, and moon and ribbons of rhyme will dissolve into your womb. you will bear fruit one day. for the palm of your tree, those bones of velvet, and the melody of lungs will rise. rise one day to the pinnacle of dreams. when your womb will ripen with poets and gods. and you will cry. with mercy. and rage. and violent lust. your cheeks like rose and hissing periwinkles. your poets will fold. and wind. and jingle. and scream. and screech. and hiss to man. you are the woman of worth.

i believe in your soul. let us hope...