Crinoline and Taffeta

Twenty seven turns of the dial
The egg- released. The cushioning, come undone
I listen, and he's loud.
I hear longer, I hear more,
Nuance, engaged.
Listening is perfected in this tight drum of 'one'.

"...forget the breeze..."

I am back. Pulling more teeth
Churning the knots with their torn threads.
I am understanding myself
In ways that can't be undone.
This is a self-infliction addiction
Reminded of what I go 'without'.

"...easier to touch..."

I can go on all night, cranking that sound
Sucking on its pilgrimage as though noticed.
Sinking into the sweat of sound
The ground beneath gets harder, darker, dense.
The loudest wail is meant to transcribe- nothing.
Disguised in crescendo's of clever denial.

"...why am I clinging...?"

Where is that book? The one with the polka-dot cover?
I told those pages how I felt, cold feathers in a corner
Cuddling themselves to console the caustic post-pluck.
The bird, the bird, the bird tonight, is my aesthetic.
Never mind the crinoline and taffeta
Broken beak's don't whistle.

"Come let me love you..."

Rewrite your song, Friend.
More complacency, more arrogance, more flippancy
Regurgitation harms our insides, left baking, moisture-less.

"Come let me love you..."

There is no time to think anymore
On what to do or what to say.
Time only to carry on in determined purpose.

"Come let me love you..."

Distortion reveals more gallantry than desired
We hide nothing in contrived attempts to bask in talent
Taper nothing in ignorance, for too obvious is the outcome.

"Come let me love you..."

Love's intention, too pure for conformity.
The humming softens, the matter laid to rest.
Acoustic love song, sing me to sleep.

Rest is all I have left.