Tripping.

[Guest guest]

Believe it or not,

you ride the moon like a bike,

and the sun makes love in your soul

like a corn fed girl

or a Romeo of magnificent proportion.

That house you inhabit

is a shack teetering on stilts

by the sea of our devotion.

We let slip our clandestine trips together

by riding the weather of this moon witchery

while politely

pretending to look the other way.

Yet all is seen to be,

the perfect and free-wheeling secret

of this our love play.

 

Meanwhile in the hayloft

and far from the cramp, of this our place-mat

of pretense,

two gnats mote and mate within the eye of God,

and tango in the trees

of the Mothers music making.

We all have a divine ear syndrome

that rings to please the permutations.

Our angelic shaking

out of Her hair,

the tryst of strangers faking it,

but making out in the heart of it.

You my twin laid love, laid bare.

 

Believe it or not,

we have both fallen into the same well.

You’re my seat and I your bell,

as we ride this wall of death,

performing our life defying stunts.

Two easy riders of moon beams

and the secret mayhem,

of our impractical magic.

Take these incurable sun-kissed words

and cover them up

when no one is looking.

Loves secret is our safe keeping,

and so to bed we fly these cryptic brooms

while sweeping together covert meetings

within our sunlit rooms.

 

love

 

eric

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2002. Eric Ashford.