Author Information
imp
i am an imp
this world to me is nothing but make believe things
compared to touch
and on the other side fo the skin i see
with my senses
is every secret i ever wanted to know
hidden behind your hungry sighs
as i ach to peer
behind disguise
those thighs
hold a grail
the highest
prize
our flesh our minds our words
our speech
none of it can be answer
to that question burning deep
so cold
wanting to feel life
i paid the price of death
for that answer of life
a city of millions
i know maybe two
i remember those gone
in the silence of those who remain
and time and space
for me no refrain
we dance through our days and moments
as if they matter even one bit
as much as the smile
that hides
as i stare at you puzzling
inside i am a hunter
tryign to see a glimpse
of another piece
of that dark beast
lost to man
but hiding behind your thoughts
in sensations and fleeting glimpses
of memory of times long ago
and a bloodthirst that seeks
to take control
i am an imp
floatign through life
trying to find
i saw that beast slip away
and only then did i bind
it to hunt
men dream of marilyn monroe
mens dreams are easy to fill with flesh
and material things
i dream of dreamers
there is a spark i can sense
and burn to a flame
its strange
the actual art and science i am
cannot be recorded or transmitted
bits and pieces of theory and research
on the effecs of all five senses and a fifth
that thing we call erotic
which for creatures that have canine teeth
like us
is part genetic, part upgringing, part experience
its as if all the words in all the world
are just words in the sentences transmitted with touch
do i ever speak to the world at all with anything i do
and is anything i say with touch translated back on the other side?
even these thoughts are the condensed form f the everything of my world
each word a marker for sentences of mundane
i watch myself and my world as i think this
moiving along withiout me
and i sit here watching myself do wwork
which includes writing this
but me inside is mute silent deaf
alone and comes out when everything i am
is focused on
the hunger of everything that is
this be my letters to the rain itself
the leaves
touch as an artform is like a strange martial art
that can be practised anywhre
a few years ago i started the habit of running fingers on bushes
every time it rained
and my sensitivity improved
all things can be strengthened with practise
but i spend half decades between
doing one or another thing
i have done
it is the intent
memory works this way
it functions based upon emotional connection
learning is this way as well
touch is where the pain and agression and joy of life
can match with the creative the fantastic
