The Significance

And how can I explain rationally where rationality will not go? And how can you follow where only your dreams may go? And when it is not a dream, when it is this reality, how then do you explain this dream without being broken apart?


The clock was slow. It hardly seemed to move. It had that eerie significance of always being three seconds ahead of when you last saw it, whether it be a moments glance, an hours past, or the ethereal of a dream.

And mind you I never did feel the time slow till the evening, before it stopped entirely for the night, and it was in these moments, between evening and the ever night that I enjoyed a lay with her. Beneath the red blanket atop the black couch next to the white wall that ascended so far overhead before its point loomed into the prick that held all the others; then it was up to them to fall back to where they began.

The red blanket soaked with all the insecurities that are pushed out by the communion of two souls. With legs intertwined as poison ivy twines the path where children love to play, yet their are those children who never feel the sting, nor never notice the itch, thus never spread their own disease. It was in this lock, in this tether of limbs that I longed to lay before the world ends each day.

Now, it was on this day, when all the points upon the prick fell to their own design, when the wet blanket, the red saturate, no longer whisked; now is when her question does persist. And though I'd asked, prayed and asked, affirmed that "what is it?" is not question but emotion, still the timing came, that slow time before night, where the skin began to itch; and my hand began to scratch. And so she asked, with her fingers, her vines, they wrapped around mine, tethered to my arm, as once before, and asked, "Is it the time to ask?"

"I've prayed and asked, and you've told you'd never ask."

"Is it me? Is it some ailment in disgust you mistrust?"

"I've asked you once, and I've asked you twice. This third time shall turn me to vice."

"But you make no sense! you lie with me, yet you I do not know outside covers, outside our bed. It's a pity to me that some would call us lovers," and with the descent and swivel of her head, " 'nough said."

" You would make this world a liar, or me in its stead?"

"I would ask only sense of your nonsense instead!"

And as it was, I 'rose to the haunches of my legs and put foot upon foot onto wood. I stopped and put to rest my head upon hands and I left my eyes open, unwinked, pairing the darkness of the palms. And though, the saturated blanket, the wet red was off of my waist, the woman's legs clung to instead. "I'll give you what you want," and the sound of a thigh slap, "If you'll but give me a little room," and then off to the corner cabinet, the one with all the booze.

And as the allusive poet enchants the reader, so the drunk drinks to his story. It's merely Liquid Cocaine for Liquid Courage. It is a delusion of the refugee, for the mind during its allegory.

He start with a shot, a cough, and then some snot,

"You would ask me to split the world in two,
and for you I will do this too, but things you will never know,
no never, is the importance of this event is not to distemper.
Though I lie, or you lie, is not soon to be deciphered,
soon will come the time where do your womb and my member.

I've wanted nothing else than the simple charms of simple airs,
but my charms are hidden between the elements;
my airs are never of your breath, nor the earth,
but between the rush of the bow and the lyre,
is it funny now how you smirk me a liar?

I've seen the parting of the veil,
and no, not the ubiquitous of the whale,
but the passing of a friend who passed a ball
while he passed away from a trivial trail.

I mean to say that as the ball from hands was pushed,
the trigger between fingers by the boy was pulled.
And as I caught the ball soon to be shot,
his stomach, his heart caught buckshot.

And so now you'll misunderstand the treble of fingers,
the tremor in steps while my mind is in its depths.
Mine is not the music while my music lasts.
The depth of my fire is to survive to everlast.
And though this dream is but a dream,
My concepts in analytics will never pass,
My arguments in comparison will be forever last."