of where and why

Writing needs not retreat
but from one's self
that teeming spume of consciousness
forever obscuring the sea below


The pen longs not of sight or scenery
as the ear too hides behind silence absolute
or at least the idea of it
so pretty, so incorrigibly wrong


So too (And) the page seeks not the light
from a farmhouse window
or the wood nicked and scarred
through poverty's years


Red herrings them all
but shadows shimmering
whispering pelagic falsehoods
nefarious and treacherous
these diamond glimmers


Release, sweet orgasmic release
is sought, needed, prayed and begged upon
Inky depth sunk and cold amber raised
of dulcet rhythms, these
tribal beats as buried
as the heart
within satyric flesh


I need not vista, but vice
not silence, but sinuousness
Give me wine and song
and I'll write of women (woman)
as if their (her) blood were my ink
as if their (her) breath were
but the fire of god unleashed


for what is writing if not creation (this act)
to bring to life as soil to seed
the windswept field waving (dewy)
as the wettish page now damply symboled
of daybreak's warm smile
upon a cold pillow