everywhere i go, you know me. talking to you, and below you, slowly- spring flows into summer inside, out and under this waterfall.
sat drying, on slabs of linen rocks, splashing coloured words, that fall like pointillated dots on cast off oppositions: in those hats and shoes and basket of flowers, we change positions- and in the gap, where nature and culture impose like towers, self artifice is dressed- but the nakedness of truth is ours.
remote ramblings, stepped and spoken; like gamblings that bloomed- only to be broken, wandered and roomed, waited on quiet landings like squandered perfume- left open.
marxist marches. mithril kisses under gothic arches- role playing elf and cleric in cold caves removed from Berek the Halfhand's chronicle, seem mesmeric- when seen through monacle.
but the other eye looks back too, inside this rhapsody with you; and the light- switched off. switched on. off, and on, loving day and night- through prose phases and shared phrases of captured sun and moon- like mellow yellow, stroking white witches broom;
knows nature's laws has moods and flaws in her quietudes- that reason cause, and fathom clues.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 8th December, 2009.
you taste of cinnamon and fish when you wish to be romantic- and the ciphers of our thoughts make ringlets with their noughts immersed in magic- like mithril mail around me stove dark forest, pink flesh sea touchings tantric- make reality and myths converge in elven riffs of music, so we dance it- symbols to the scenes of conflict, mavericks in dreams that now sit- listening to these pots and kettles blackening on the fire of rhetoric and murderous mettles- before we both retire to our own script.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones. 9th September, 2009.