the rush of lust
is never the actions taken.
it is the unsaid
way before the actions.
it is when the long awaited
is the simmer before sunrise
that has been impending
deep in the murmurs
that leaps full mouth open
into the sky of animation as action
that those first blast of dream-awake rays
are staring down the throat
of one's night-sight presenting as happening
and lust is speechlessly displaced
by nighttime action.
there is the lust
looking for an onrush
as if as an answer
to a buildup of inner unsaidness.
it is when the ever so
layered in silence as kindling
is from fine-tooth slivers of pang-whispers
then stacked as inklings into twigs
then rolls of broken branches
memory-added
then outright lumber piled on
pyramiding towards the inner craving sky
that has finally caught up
with the desire
that lead to the spark
and all of that false-wood
seething with desire's dryness
then burst into what happens next
as lust is lit up
beyond the thievery
of what was thought possible
into full blown override
way past the onrush as expected
the flames become outspoken
and lust, goes up in smoke
find me the lust
that fumbles with body parts
in the mind of the night
that strains and flexes the visuals
as if trembling in shameful celebration
that breathes in the seething
as if aliveness ever comes
that towers as the director of intention
and simmers as the subdued
that never arrives
yet to beat the emotional drum-skin of self
with continued layers of cravings
as if to be the libido
that knows no soul
but fakes it for the glory-mind untold
only to awake to the frank-openness
dressed as the obvious as dreamed
the entourage unraveling
sleep is just becoming as day breaks
night falls by the roadside of the morning
and lust becomes another roadkill
of an emotional existence
for driving oneself madly along
passion done in one lusty color
with the strong off-hand of desire
yet pressing too hard
on the self-page
of the awakening mind . . .
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