The Amorphous me

I put myself in the cockpit of this ball of raging fire
as I swerve, the images of people shouting
going past other cars, I only see the blurred
blackness of the speedway in front of me
my hands and feet locked into step with
my senses, I feel and hear nothing else
except the beat of my heart and the thump
of the engine as I think of racing through the
waving flag that tells me I’m king
that would be nice, I hear myself say
watching the champion hit the finish line on tv.

Do I want to sing today? Can I sing today?
Should I learn to play something instead?
My body digs the music that I am hearing
and I want to rely on something of my own
than have my body betray me to the groove
of someone else’s making.

The glint of sunlight on the waves pulls my attention
towards the lone figure, standing on his board
sure of his ability to ride the raw power of what lies
beneath him for hundreds of feet, propelling him
with such force, yet he stands and gracefully
tunnels through whatever slaps the ocean throws at him
I sit and wander how I would feel if I could control
such a beast and glide alongside him.

The gracious curves of the museum houses
the best of art history has to offer
colors so vivid, my eyes grow wide as I watch
the fluid shapes of strange yet beautiful
artifacts surrounded by serene, painful and surreal
landscapes that came out of somebody’s
imagination so out of this world only they could
have thought of it.

Surely the pilot on my flight has thoughts similar to mine
yet she toils away, from place to place
away from places and people and things she knows
and misses every time she flies the likes of me
taking us where we want to be. Surely she sees
and longs for things I see and long for
But, then again she loves flying and I can understand
For I would do the same over and over again.

What about the books, what wonderful worlds they create
and the places they take me, away from reality
even for a bit, sometimes delving me into the
depths of abstractness suddenly so bright,
I finally understand the murky and the unknown
just because someone took the time to write
down what they thought the world should know.

These houses I see, some buildings and some bridges
such beautiful forms, so fragile and so strong
a paradox that could only have come from the minds
of artists, though hidden behind them would probably
be sweats and hours of thousands of unknown faces
Oh, how I admire them all and wish I could, even for
a day, imagine myself standing proud in front of
a monument I helped build, smiling and satisfied.

These thoughts are but a few samplings
of a sea of longingness that I find myself
drowning in, coming up for air, floating
swimming and diving
sometimes taking a taste of a few
sometimes missing them by a
hair’s breadth,
an always changing perception,
this is the amorphous me.

-by dédé(11/15/03)
Advertisements

Desire

I wish sometimes
to feel the texture of your lips
on mine, the exact terrain of the creases
and the zone of contact unknown
to the last minute
till it fills every crevice on my face
and penetrates my being
making me flush with desire
for contact, making me flourish
and making me spread my body out in
anticipation, my hair aching for the caress of fingers
through it, to grab and to hold
my neck goes serpentile and my body
follows, tensing and relaxing
already feeling the caress of your soft skin
point by point, touch by touch
on mine, my veins pulse with the
fury of the blood racing through
the furious pumping of my heart
my skin tingles, waiting for
the touch of velvet from your
dancing fingers and the
the intoxicating smell of your bodice
making me want to borrow in
to your every nook and cranny
and to taste your salty existence
making it my own and basking
in the unity of my actions
to see your face emitting the very truth
of human existence, to caress
your tongue with mine, to follow the
line of your face, drip it with
the juice of my living lust
and trace the lines of your curve
from the tips of your toes, through
the lenght of your legs, the arch of your
thighs, the hot bewitching of your dark valleys
the serene flat of your stomache, the dimple
and the glorious curvature of your breasts
I writhe when I think of the moment
of your cries of pleasure and of begging
me to beg along with you to join you
in your rhythmic palpitations of the core
of your soul when you cry out to me
I want you and you want me.

-by Lex Lapax (11/04/2003)

The Mandolin Song

The roll of the drums
accompanied by the strumming of mandolin
the joy of dancing feet with arms waving
and the lovers eyeing each other
their faces adorned with shy smiles
stolen between gaps of no one looking

the skirts flare up as the belles twirl
clippity clap clippity clap
the wooden shoes tap on the stone playa
the old man carries his young daughter
dances with her feet on top of his
and the young ones form a circle holding hands

the mist tries to cover the portruding beauty
of the mountain, the island
the water shimmers with the
strength of the moon shining down
the music dies down along with the laughter
and shadows go by holding hands

-by Lex Lapax (11/04/2003)