5 Dec

It is a simple belly of truth. It is exposed every so often when I twist to reach
and jump and scream with joy. It is blood-full and sinewy, ordered like maps and clocks.

I, without a word would expose it and only the voyeur would see. I might bellow
myself into a headache and have it burst with truth. I have an inextinguishable torch
that is my coupled heart and soul, and I dance upon the solidity of the wind that only
gods can know. If you are not fit to give up your mortal plight then do not reach to me. You will go up in smoke, your ashes will muddy in the rain of my tears, brief, at loss of you.

Kipling, you master.

Bacchus makes a fair play for me and I, his pard, submit wholly. I am not the imposter you suspect, you must listen to me closely. When I am ready to fireball to the next dimension, be prepared. If I desire I may take the lot of other fool joy lovers with. We will affirm life infinitely for a night or two. I am a man who would be king, and scream it to your grave, Rudyard. I will find you; a Gael can smell another. Blank face people will behold us at the doorway, shocked and then laughing. We see all of them.

© 1993-2010 brent david fraser, all rights reserved

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