Dance Of Amy's Love

I know. (oh - dedicated to Amy George and her Husband)

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Really. You all know, or at least agree in dark cafes that Will is unable to write, and these words we call expressions of aesthetic judgement may play a very complicated rôle, (which you refuse) but I think a very definite rôle, in what we call a culture of a zeitgeist.  To describe my use or to describe what I mean by a cultured taste, you have to describe a culture.  What I now call a cultured taste perhaps didn't exist in the Middle Ages.  An entirely different game is played in different ages. So bite me. I write.

The sheer

definite  enormity

of this has as much

hope of being contained

lust and of being

maintained

within her own confines

as it has within these

words -- his

words

Eternity

imprisoned as still life, and

the door is open but within

the cage

her stillmess resides as a bird

There is nothing that

exists

fully bridged for time

the eternal fear of

will forever ensure

that we all float hopelessly adrift

Can you see eternity

in an orchid Amy?

The pain the sorrow

the misery the joy

sheared

stripped

the love

the ecstasy or

does it only ever

equate to craving him?

Life is lust and lust is what?

we take the knife and

swipe at the ripe blossom

of being,

Shredding

revealing beauty's elegance,

and then eloping with a him and

with our very own dance.