Come closer. Close the curtain against the clean fresh air
Become my clothes and flesh made flesh only
Climb in me. The skin. The rhythm of skin sublime
And time-wind the spring line impalpable.
A graveyard clock in a neighbourhood where cops walk in pairs, is dead
A concrete wood where bears shit, a wormhole, where a pretty plum
Picks a pickled pear. All twinkle toed from a Soho show, she goes:
I bet Ginger Rogers as Fred Astaires. And she goes:
I bet I can make you dance
I bet I can make you laugh
Iím smoother than a baby in an acid bath.
Facades splinter. A breaking: the flow and fold of heart borne
A churning of cream and ghee, the butter beauty of
The urgent slow, the fated and fitful glee of remembering
Souls repeating their romance immemorialÖ
Alarm echoes but no work today, no pay equals the play of a minute more
Exploring lands lost over and over again, a garden, that hill, that valley,
A synchronous empire and though he does not move, she goes: please donít go
Slow dance to a love song of lost craft, of passing ships and seas,
Please stay a while, she goes,
Iíll make no trouble, please.
As tenderly as a bubble in a bubble bath.
(entered in Think You Can Dance comp of Lobo's)