The Margains of Your Mind (Boris Spasky Blues)
Classic beauty
Like pressed flowers
in sacred books
Let me see where your sword falls
I try to predict where/when
To anticipate the cut (my bane... my beauty... permutations... a slice from Boris Spasky)
We both want fire, yet I seek smoke
as I checkers chase your shadow, in moribund midnight rooms
The marbled margins of your mind
when the emotive teases sanity
I pound my chest, I taunt (my daily Damocles demise)
The calculating, the cold
The slice that bleeds you slow
The fire, the flame
of a rage born twist (necrotic knife of undeniable intent)
Still I seek the sugar of rejuvenation
a lust born of base magnetic flesh...
Till I believe in her "kitten kindness"
Her reincarnations, spiritual and carnal
they slip through my hands, sullen my soul and sallow my face