The Margains of Your Mind (Boris Spasky Blues)

Classic beauty

Like pressed flowers

in sacred books


Let me see where your sword falls


I try to predict where/when

To anticipate the cut (my bane... my beauty... permutations... a slice from Boris Spasky)

We both want fire, yet I seek smoke

as I checkers chase your shadow, in moribund midnight rooms


The marbled margins of your mind

when the emotive teases sanity 

I pound my chest, I taunt (my daily Damocles demise)


The calculating, the cold

The slice that bleeds you slow

The fire, the flame

of a rage born twist (necrotic knife of undeniable intent)


Still I seek the sugar of rejuvenation

a lust born of base magnetic flesh...

Till I believe in her "kitten kindness"

Her reincarnations, spiritual and carnal 

they slip through my hands, sullen my soul and sallow my face




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