WORD UP
So I say, word.
Word up, it’s my turn to converse,
to turn you from my heart.
Baby, can you dig?
I need your words,
your smile,
your visions of what is art.
Word.
What else can I say?
Words lay at your feet,
they rise and fall
to your orgasmic beat.
Your words:
they smell of night when the moon is full
and taste like
skin bathed in the skies
where condors once soared
and whose wings made the valley winds
alive with rainforest hues
as seen thru your eyes.
Word up interplay
crashes thru my mind.
So I say, word
its my turn to converse,
to turn you from my heart.
Baby can you dig?
The words I need
will never come
and have dried up
from my mind,
even the ones found once in
Nerudian images like:
“and I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness,
image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.”
Word up,
the mystery is you.
And you my mystere,
are the wind I dance to.
Word up baby.
Can you dig it?
(Note: the quoted lines are from a Pablo Neruda poem called “Poetry”.)
~~redzone 7.9.06
This is outstanding, Curt. It sounds to me like something Kerouac might have written. It needs voice, I think — but then, I think that of damn near everything — except a whole bunch of things I’ve heard on the radio and TV that should never have been heard by anyone. I do have my limits. There’s only one good thing about those things: I can turn them off. Now this, this is good very beautiful. It sings without the music. I could feel the need, the longing and the heartbreak. Excellent work, my friend.
This is some serious juice of a lexiphile! Gonna be sighing on this one for days…