I dream of Venice Beach,
and you slither across the sand
smelling of sea salt and sex.
You whisper to me of crystal ships
and spanish caravans while I blush
hot white and try to squelch my craving.
My strawberry mane entices
your hollow Wedgwood eyes,
begging for your fevered stroke.
Singing of perceptions and prayers,
you offer a soft serenade under
a hazy sky of purplish salmon.
Whiskey words and smoky voice
cast no veil on your charms,
though you choke and stumble.
A god of rock can mesmerize with
bare feet and wire-rimmed glasses.
I’d still be hungry.
A thinker in leather, who smudged
glass mirrors with the goal of distortion.
Too surreal, for a Warhol fan.
As you lean in, and shyly speak
my ear is slightly tickled. Your breath
is sweet, but love, you really need a shave.
Speak not of the basin on Rue Beautreillis,
or etched stones of Pere Lachaise;
only prick me with your needle.
You warble ballads of Edith,
and hail ‘poor’ Oscar’s words,
blind to what it is you have in common.
I’d touch you if you weren’t afraid
of warm fingers on your cold skin,
or rips in the flimsy paper.
I’d cook duck with orange sauce
and offer it up, on the finest plate,
if I thought that you'd eat it.
Drink me, drink me!
Floating wonder words and fairytales
are the blood and breath
which bind me to your side.
We wait for the sun to rest in silence,
hearing the delphian carousel
as it tinkles its haunting aria.
Jim, I hear your hymn.
Tara Teeling
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-vision-of-mr-morrison/