Friday, January 23, 2009

From A Hungry Ghost

Wanting another…
Just one more
And maybe one more after that…
Your lips glide across mine
Igniting fire within ancient caves,
finally, the strange paintings are visible
and they glow with the magic of secret things
that have been forgotten.
I cry when it ends
Even as your lips touch mine,
I am thinking about the next time,
and then,
the time after that.
When will it be?
When will there be more?
My hunger stops at nothing
I feast on chocolate and bread,
ripe fruits and thick cream
Still, my stomach growls
The ghostly pit quietly begs
One more touch, feel my breast
One more kiss, taste my tongue
One more
Another, and perhaps I can rest...

But this machine full of trickery
takes the upper hand
Pulling me by my hair,
I crawl along the marble steps,
cleaning the floor with my desire
I consume the dirt,
grabbing handfuls of dark soil and sand
I lick the leaves
crunchy and crackling between white teeth,
they taste like winter in eternal fog
politely, the machine asks for more
without a smile, the machine asks for more
with anger, the machine screams for more
with tears, the machine begs for another
with hurt, the machine wails
sending rays of pain through the white walls that surround it,
into all matter that expands endlessly
in this vast Universe
in which it finds itself alone,
and now at last it lays
tired and drained,
devastated and consumed
frozen to stone and left to rot
and still

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