It
couldn’t be her eyes—shifting hypnoses, and never a thought; the lightning of
marbles, or stonetablets, blinking systematically. Oh to perish, to do it
newly, to pull at Australia; this blackmarket—called life, this inner Africa.
Her aura’s a ballad, even R&B, a Pulitzer Award. It’s Off the Wall, this course of passions, printing vinyl; and picture
for music, the breadth of her eyes, performing on a dancefloor. We chime a
dungeon, to live in secret, the cults of Europe; to feel for lapwings, or even
leopards, that world of rhinestones. We tread the circles, to see for miracles,
to continue our trek; for oh Egyptian minds, to mingle with Greece, to feature
Aristotle; where logic forms—a wealth of webs, as cultured as Ethiopia.
I
drift the nights, to season this feeling, as born as Enlightenment; but it couldn’t be—the eyes of scrutiny, flavored
with Cayenne Pepper; the steady contempt, the rounded disdain, to move as
windmills.
I
call it life, and court the arts, that further apart; to see for styles, the
waves to touch, to offset security; where one for sights, a particular
paradigm, to impose perfections; but it couldn’t be, the eyes of tension, a
lighthouse thoughtful.
