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Steppes Between Mountains: A "love" Poem

by  seanfarragher

Posted: Monday, May 02, 2005
Word Count: 500
Summary: My pessimism grows daily as I read the newspapers and copy in my notebooks the daily art of our disintegration
Related Works: “Facts Are Stubborn Things” -- Revised 3 • Books from the Bible • Broken Photographs, Dutch Art and Time Machines • Fountain of Youth • Hurrah, Hooray, Huzzah • No Milk and Cookies • Orwell’s “1984” Redux– • Parnassus • Poems with Anais Nin • Stations of the Cross • Tsunami 12/26/2004 • What Rough beast (Revised) • Wonderful History -- • 



Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.


Steppes Between Mountains: a love poem

Splendid cauldron on the high steppes
the heat beat us down and melts more
than time, more than steps taken backward
to review the previous lyric, the past eye
as I stare back without voice. I can
mirror grit and emotional extremes. Do you
dare to let it down as blood trickles simply
between fingers until I bleed out am I too
dramatic my mothers and fathers at
last Prom dance where she shook it until
the heat, some easy amorous trial
a motion in practice, and she sat there
lighting the steps that I passed as I wished
to fuck her again forever. I am in love.

2.
Last dance was soft, dark and your hands rubbed my ass
in circles, as I rocket upward, not as object, but space
considered as mind and drifting down, and up as play
was the heat of an easier amorous trial. I cooked
I felt the hot pot boil and over flow steam into coals
and when you burnt your lips, so hot the liquid, I was
the goal, the edge of the last volcano that broke open
history as piles of peas, or a list of worms, written
with their phylum’s, orders, species, families as soft
stems, life in its ordinary history was a blossom
a flower so supreme no one could dissolve it
even when the ordinary ages of dying were void
and you in my arms were a legend and story simply
told from the inside of the character's eye

3.
Nothing could hold them imperfect in witness;
notice the imperfections or remain distant
without emotion. I worship life
and death was a tarnished map without lines
to separate the ages of red coral,
the last simple line between what was
and what can become, so are we
history or future, -- does the motion of life
follow our imperfection into the sewer where
we shaken alive, made to fondle all septic
flues mark our pasts as some future reformers
twist the knot, -- this is a strangle revival
without a pause. Nothing is perfect.
The wind wins one race without pause.
Count the ribs of the vestibule of the vagina.
Find place where the end is reached and breached
without any concern for change or conservation.

I am only there today. I cannot control the stars.
I am without power and glory, but I do breathe
the infestation, and I make it all perfect when it is not
nor can be the ideal, the perfect process, the mold
for another universe, another space time circumstance.
We are lost, you see, and cannot be found.

Follow the trace of my arms, and darling woman, sweet
April, great Spring bend my body to your convections
and I am caught in the bloom of your sexual annunciation.
God is alive when she drives his prick into her fundamental orders.
God is not dead. She is alive whistling to the songs of her clitoris.




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