The Dead Bodyguards of Abraham Lincoln
The love that’s fulminating between us, bubbling up as a potion preferred,
mixes and mingles with our crowds.
Best is our flower that never wilts by night and only blooms
as if it were a daytime revolving within a convexed sky o’erhead.
The love that’s absolute, taking shape in a solute
which we drink while secretly sandwiched in sheets.
Even on that hot and muggy day… You know the one?
The one that’s like all other ones,
where although I’m spending my moments perspiring
and wiping mosquito guts off of my hands, I’ll still think of you,
see you slipping through the molecules of the air in the distance,
slowly flowing towards my eyes. Then I see you in full, the love in tow.
You’re no shapely attraction, nor the full and pouting lips I see on screen,
but just something that still twists and turns on my tongue;
for its only description is never known to men until
they find the time to touch and taste you, like I have.
Not until we’d sit down together and wonder
‘so, who is this girl, woman, this lady, this lover of ours?’
But I’d have it another way, where we’d last long enough
for me to have you in perfect words.
You and I laying tree-tall grass, picking out what we can
of the sky from so far below, lost.
Standing,
staring,
and dreaming up
a wonderful machine creaking behind the backdrop,
wondering what makes its oiled ticks last so long,
all the ways away from our own.
sigh...
And when you’re coming home, French affection music perpetually playing from just behind you, out of sight, we’re alone. We’re wonderfully alone in such a lovely place.
les danseurs sont entransed et la musique et la danse…
mixes and mingles with our crowds.
Best is our flower that never wilts by night and only blooms
as if it were a daytime revolving within a convexed sky o’erhead.
The love that’s absolute, taking shape in a solute
which we drink while secretly sandwiched in sheets.
Even on that hot and muggy day… You know the one?
The one that’s like all other ones,
where although I’m spending my moments perspiring
and wiping mosquito guts off of my hands, I’ll still think of you,
see you slipping through the molecules of the air in the distance,
slowly flowing towards my eyes. Then I see you in full, the love in tow.
You’re no shapely attraction, nor the full and pouting lips I see on screen,
but just something that still twists and turns on my tongue;
for its only description is never known to men until
they find the time to touch and taste you, like I have.
Not until we’d sit down together and wonder
‘so, who is this girl, woman, this lady, this lover of ours?’
But I’d have it another way, where we’d last long enough
for me to have you in perfect words.
You and I laying tree-tall grass, picking out what we can
of the sky from so far below, lost.
Standing,
staring,
and dreaming up
a wonderful machine creaking behind the backdrop,
wondering what makes its oiled ticks last so long,
all the ways away from our own.
sigh...
And when you’re coming home, French affection music perpetually playing from just behind you, out of sight, we’re alone. We’re wonderfully alone in such a lovely place.
les danseurs sont entransed et la musique et la danse…