I never reference too much pash. Alas, it aggravates,
like a sickle to a root—sweet, soft soil. Made rare to adore, certain types a
glance—too much love talk.
I remember a blank gaze, superconsciousness,
self-observed, begging for essence, romantic wires, if to become secure; the
last page was the first, blasted off of something, laughing at arrogance—so cocky,
such wailing, wondering if love prevails.
A thimble to its heart. Knitting ego silence. At
humility—sexual enthrallment.
I saw butterflies, painted in violets, magentas, bold iridescent
brilliance—I saw eyes!
So much for pash—that thief of souls, to have one with
us, suffocating logic, desiring to let go—an ironic understanding. The book was
opened.
I drift into seas, sitting in stillness, along the
mind-shore; there to stand, in bikini, sandals and sunblock … curves,
quintessence, smirking, giggling, talking smack—motion, waves, anxieties … most
are performing, as souls have forced it.
