ballad of a stripper and a bookkeeper

he shot a hobo

alas a hobo

my lover shot a hobo

it was love , so love

i was the most insane stripper

lost on a winters eve

he was a bookkeeper with a gun

we wanted to run together

passion and breast in flames

he tried so much to please

with bunched up bloody nose

another fight over me

he started to kill

for pleasure that winters eve

police would call

and i would deny

through a packards windshield

his face a policeman saw

once run down

no going back

mexico and jazz

we where on the run

but my passion waned

with his bloodstained hands

and made a call

to a deputy

our villa surrounded

he felt betrayed

as to the chair

he fried

my lover alas my lover

who shot a hobo

and broke my heart

dVersePoets

gardens in a candlelit room

i take a hammer

and a nail

to my brother and sister eye,

one gazing south

to shared sand of desert and sea,

other north

through motorcycle lens

to fields of open pleasure,

my visceral concern

is not getting lost between both,

naked to contradiction

my form is seen

bare paleness of a wanting moon

sand still tasted between teeth,

without movement and sound

to the board of memory

each eye nailed

swiftly

so there is no gelatinous collapse

blinking obscura of pain,

i now want

flesh cold

still pale

not written upon by her lips,

hammer has fallen

indenting ground

taking root

Andrew Wyeth Man and the Moon

1926 after D.H

we are among the ruins

and could return to life again,

it was their natural atmosphere

not daunted by either art or ideal politics

out in the open world,

she could use her sexuality to have power over him,

her orgasm and her crisis

amazing, the profound

fulfilled before they knew promise

a vibrating thrill inside the body

and the soul she could not get rid of,

succumbed to the strange male power

a well bred social anarchy

one of the curious obsolete,

she went by without looking at them,

alone he was a lost thing

whole act took place in a vacuum,

why should they last

with layers of dissolution

like geological strata,

sideways, and downwards the light fell on him

he was burningly, poignantly grateful for these

pieces of natural

as was his outcast soul,

they lit the candles in the hall

of unfinished tender flesh

an erasure poem derived from a novel that caused much controversy D H Lawrence Lady Chatterlys Lover