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Hungry Ghost

April 14, 2012 | Comments: 0 | Views: 72

A hungry ghost lusts for your healing-power hungry hands, Baring chest and baring trust for you. If he does not bear his cross for you to watch, then perhaps he has not paid you enough. Does he come slumming for your enlightened interior decorating? Do you know the look of an unbroken eye? Can a tie hide a silk soul? Will you open one to read the note inside? Does my sadist bodhisattva ache for every tear he cannot kiss as he crushes sticky sweet juice from the seeds of fruit he clutches behind his back? If bankers are your cross, bear each with dignity across their hidden rivers. Spare them the snobbish nine-fingered nirvana that forbids tax collectors.

Hiding in the great liar's corona, Your Judas lusts for you. Desire a tear-shaped well Forming only one touch: His kiss, the missing trinity body In a binary star system of deaths Spiraling into frail collapse in his master's lap. But perhaps a savior less cruel Would comfort the cool companion with hand on cheek Would give him hints, Now be strong, Now be weak.

How many thousands of my damp hands Have yanked stubborn cords over the course of my life Before I became a vessel for electrons to the ground? Now for three days, Static electricity, Secret sex with doorknobs, Leaves me blessed.

I wanted you to share the cocaine flavor of my seedless ardor, Wanted to see you rot from the inside for me, Or, barring that, wanted to uneat my own fruit, to crush the lust for love. My apple blushes with the allomones of loneliness. Your theft no moral match for my sin of omnipotent seduction. My terrible need seeps down your weak chin As I let you float away on the newspaper boats I made.

On airplanes and in bars, You beg me to steal from you Like a virgin in a farce. I will try on your tears in the mirror tonight But discard them on my floor, Too flimsy, too lacy for my taste. Your open mouth full of ten-dollar words like gold teeth, Your life's passion in ideas, unchained, You flaunt in the furs and feathers of your need. With silent instruments I fondle open your sense of self-worth As it quivers to be plundered. If your remember me at all, Tell your fellow travelers of your prodigal submission- Tell your friends what a Good Listener I am.

Source: EzineArticles
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