rain of song
it happens at night. we take to the barrens like desperadoes,
somewhere to exploit our deviant fantasies, to dream our
despondence is the name of night. the rain falls & sings the blues,
the wind blows, the train whistles, & the crackling air is thick with
poetry. the moon has no radiance, & is therefore sad.
we star-branded lovers are captured by the desolate symphony.
God gave woman to man, & they forged the fire of sex by their
conspiracy. my woman & me, we rage for it, & run with the
wailing wolves to escape our separate hells.
I want her wet to my touch, wet where I thrust my fingers, & her
eyes wet with conflagrant tears. we speak our craving with our
tongues & our hands; passion is reflected in her beauty, the
blueness I paint her with.
& this violent lust that we make has the rain of song, it weeps with
the moon’s face & it goes where the train goes… without us.
having dreamed our last dream,
we attempt to steal the serenity
to which we have no right,
& go down in a hail of bullets…
(Art: Frederique Pottier)