Red, gentle, soft, sore

Inopportune innuendo
call it innate condition of the age
Digital public
gleaming phosphorescence
Illness dripping from mouth
to body to floor to air to body
Fields of energy flow
Minds dancing between and within
pulsating beats in body
blank space and dense energy
Deep a******s with numb sex organs
Clear electric lifelike, open
pathways of sweat and heat
Red, gentle, soft, sore tubes
Legions and spasms, speculations:
There would be no words without flowers.
Colorless sound and colorful silence.
Carry flowers to their bodies
To sing to their absolution.
I see silence in the opening of an orchid;
I see why the dead need flowers.

Reviews

[cilla]

Your poetry is a wonderful mixture of on the edge, frenetic verse that can be at times strangely enigmatic but also curiously familiar. The quest to know, the journey of questions finds breathe in your words � intriguing and yet the answers seem so temptingly within reach.

I am so glad to have found your work. You are definitely one of the best kept secrets on this crazy site.

[Pax Analog]

Cilla requested I read this.

This poem is a strange attractor, ruminating on sexual milieu and anatomy with the tone of an alien mystic.

Upon rereading, your words never lose their aura of enigma, but that's Reality.

The reader is taken on a tour from digital to pulsing energy patterns to electric red meat to flowers and R.I.P., a hyper-condensed history of desire.

In memoriam to crypto-lust.

Unique, Dith.