Dangerouspoet
Virgin
- Joined
- Jun 29, 2006
- Posts
- 20
The Dancer Chelsea
At night in New York City the lights
of our rooms, fifty stories high, shine
in a shrill vector of rays above tinny din
of motor cars and perpetual organ
grinders playing the sexy mouth game
while their lips completed orgasms in
several keys – their refrain, every verse
and chorus lifts my dancer as she wears
a slight white peignoir that she removed
slowly opening the layers of her delicate
small breasts, and with every thrust of her
loins she imagines her kingdom, and is
perfectly aroused by hot airs of summer
that had otherwise broken down with
musical sharps and flats while the natural
voices cut out of the concert left the key
and soloist without any plan, or even a
remote understanding of how music,
dance, and the sensual falling of flowers
registered a broken key and dissonance
reigned with Stravinsky and Prokofiev.
I love double flats and sharps to sweep space
into an habitual nervous climate that rains
when you try to change the outcome by twisting
the dials on the digital TV -- no one is that
powerful, and that sweet break in space
slows another direction for melody and
different harmonic maps with greater
Jazz bitter syncopation for beats against thighs
to pump us to complete mating, and that extra
kick of sex to guarantee the resolution of our
musical program. I do guarantee we will hear
only the best rise and run of notes while words
hidden in the barrel of the gun fall silent at
the appropriate time just as we reach climax
and the hot summer skins we shift over sand
advertise our brutal perfection as lovers and things.
2.
Chelsea had long legs, danced with an ardent hope
to raise sweat in summer, keep her weight impossible
almost not there, invisible as she pointed, lifted,
was aroused by oranges and pears at breakfast. He fed
her with his golden mythic spoon and the profound
juice leaked down the inside of her outer lips over his
palms, and he was caught, transformed, chanted
noble sorrow came alive forever with her hands.
She made him her life with the friction of palms
and the foot dance in the heat of summer streets,
and nothing virginal could be kept, and sworn
words ran down her legs or his while they swam
across the wild pond to paradise and beyond flaws.
She was perfect he believed but would not argue
her imagined limitations as it would do more harm
than bring about any change, for we are whole
in our choices, and no one can really change chance.
She asked for an orgy of one. He gave her more
than a dance in his choreography. Imagine sex on
stage balanced with Prokoviev and Balanchine.
Poetry as streamers fell from the White House porch
to the long line of limousines connected in circles.
What is fame she blushes? I do not know it. I cannot
believe it as the mirage simply boils away in summer
air over the great lakes into the Pacific and back over
all the great oceans to Atlantic City and that contest
pulling taffy, finding out who was beautiful, and then
running your hands over her breasts and when she
takes in breath, god appears on the mantle alone.
God has no gender, and no comfort with our difference
except as we are the means to his creation, as such, we
are the million miles of heat that make summer cold.
I want her thin, alive racing while I dance, recite my poems,
for we are troubadours raging down the French countryside
during the great wars of England and France, Prussia and
those Russian hoards driving us into new alphabets made
up to keep us busier so we cannot create the perfect mind
and settle for leadership that has never been honest,
but that is the raw story of the rage of heat in the macadam
streets, and when the house burns down, no one can fix it.
Chelsea is my new dancer. She is the city of New York, and
a dancer who will create our rivers, lakes and the mouth
of sex to swallow all prurient pears and every stable phallus.
My lover made a movie of our performance, but unfortunately
it was seized by the revolutionary guard as reactionary agitprop,
and I wouldn’t be allowed access to the libraries of either hell
or the distaff heaven that seems so fake these days as I age.
6-4-06
At night in New York City the lights
of our rooms, fifty stories high, shine
in a shrill vector of rays above tinny din
of motor cars and perpetual organ
grinders playing the sexy mouth game
while their lips completed orgasms in
several keys – their refrain, every verse
and chorus lifts my dancer as she wears
a slight white peignoir that she removed
slowly opening the layers of her delicate
small breasts, and with every thrust of her
loins she imagines her kingdom, and is
perfectly aroused by hot airs of summer
that had otherwise broken down with
musical sharps and flats while the natural
voices cut out of the concert left the key
and soloist without any plan, or even a
remote understanding of how music,
dance, and the sensual falling of flowers
registered a broken key and dissonance
reigned with Stravinsky and Prokofiev.
I love double flats and sharps to sweep space
into an habitual nervous climate that rains
when you try to change the outcome by twisting
the dials on the digital TV -- no one is that
powerful, and that sweet break in space
slows another direction for melody and
different harmonic maps with greater
Jazz bitter syncopation for beats against thighs
to pump us to complete mating, and that extra
kick of sex to guarantee the resolution of our
musical program. I do guarantee we will hear
only the best rise and run of notes while words
hidden in the barrel of the gun fall silent at
the appropriate time just as we reach climax
and the hot summer skins we shift over sand
advertise our brutal perfection as lovers and things.
2.
Chelsea had long legs, danced with an ardent hope
to raise sweat in summer, keep her weight impossible
almost not there, invisible as she pointed, lifted,
was aroused by oranges and pears at breakfast. He fed
her with his golden mythic spoon and the profound
juice leaked down the inside of her outer lips over his
palms, and he was caught, transformed, chanted
noble sorrow came alive forever with her hands.
She made him her life with the friction of palms
and the foot dance in the heat of summer streets,
and nothing virginal could be kept, and sworn
words ran down her legs or his while they swam
across the wild pond to paradise and beyond flaws.
She was perfect he believed but would not argue
her imagined limitations as it would do more harm
than bring about any change, for we are whole
in our choices, and no one can really change chance.
She asked for an orgy of one. He gave her more
than a dance in his choreography. Imagine sex on
stage balanced with Prokoviev and Balanchine.
Poetry as streamers fell from the White House porch
to the long line of limousines connected in circles.
What is fame she blushes? I do not know it. I cannot
believe it as the mirage simply boils away in summer
air over the great lakes into the Pacific and back over
all the great oceans to Atlantic City and that contest
pulling taffy, finding out who was beautiful, and then
running your hands over her breasts and when she
takes in breath, god appears on the mantle alone.
God has no gender, and no comfort with our difference
except as we are the means to his creation, as such, we
are the million miles of heat that make summer cold.
I want her thin, alive racing while I dance, recite my poems,
for we are troubadours raging down the French countryside
during the great wars of England and France, Prussia and
those Russian hoards driving us into new alphabets made
up to keep us busier so we cannot create the perfect mind
and settle for leadership that has never been honest,
but that is the raw story of the rage of heat in the macadam
streets, and when the house burns down, no one can fix it.
Chelsea is my new dancer. She is the city of New York, and
a dancer who will create our rivers, lakes and the mouth
of sex to swallow all prurient pears and every stable phallus.
My lover made a movie of our performance, but unfortunately
it was seized by the revolutionary guard as reactionary agitprop,
and I wouldn’t be allowed access to the libraries of either hell
or the distaff heaven that seems so fake these days as I age.
6-4-06
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