Monday 19 November 2012

Rapture, rupture


Pluck at your hair with violin rapture. Sing-song heart belief. In the darkest night, the candle glows, the wind blows. Lighting those who go astray, shining the way for little children and skipping heart beats. Jump into abundant bosoms of joy. Capture the myrrh through yielding,
cushiony tissues. Enrapture, they are bound to. Monotonous melodies take on mutinous fire-shadows of pleasure in the vast volume of soul songs. They travel to your shrinking stomach, where they make itsy lace-winged butterflies flutter by, as if possessed by pirouetting particles of ecstasy. Glutinous membranes stick to your buttery fingertips, and leathery forehead, possessing the deep lines, soothing collagen to echoing emptiness. Jump to catch the fluffy cotton eyelashes swimming in the confounding heavens of existence. Take them to your eyelids, spread them out, gently. Caress them like you would, the inner thighs of passion. Open your eyes in slow, staged sonatas. See the apple trees in full bloom, waxing eloquent and plumping praises upon your handsome face. Take your potter’s hands to your face, dip them in the clay-pot of honey dew. Use the magic moisture to pinch the stories you want to tell, onto the jagged perfection of your countenance. Smile, the grasshoppers need you. Conduct their flight with a correct cantata. Soar above dithery thoughts. Rise to rose essence-filled water balls. Poke at them, drown in hints of poetry and tints of prose.