i am an imp
this world to me is nothing but make believe things

compared to touch

and on the other side fo the skin i see

with my senses

is every secret i ever wanted to know

hidden behind your hungry sighs

as i ach to peer

behind disguise

those thighs

hold a grail

the highest



our flesh our minds our words

our speech

none of it can be answer

to that question burning deep

so cold

wanting to feel life


i paid the price of death

for that answer of life

a city of millions

i know maybe two

i remember those gone

in the silence of those who remain

and time and space

for me no refrain

we dance through our days and moments

as if they matter even one bit

as much as the smile

that hides

as i stare at you puzzling

inside i am a hunter

tryign to see a glimpse

of another piece

of that dark beast

lost to man

but hiding behind your thoughts

in sensations and fleeting glimpses

of memory of times long ago

and a bloodthirst that seeks

to take control


i am an imp

floatign through life

trying to find

i saw that beast slip away

and only then did i bind
it to hunt
men dream of marilyn monroe

mens dreams are easy to fill with flesh

and material things
i dream of dreamers

there is a spark i can sense

and burn to a flame


its strange

the actual art and science i am
cannot be recorded or transmitted
bits and pieces of theory and research

on the effecs of all five senses and a fifth

that thing we call erotic

which for creatures that have canine teeth

like us

is part genetic, part upgringing, part experience


its as if all the words in all the world

are just words in the sentences transmitted with touch
do i ever speak to the world at all with anything i do

and is anything i say with touch translated back on the other side?

even these thoughts are the condensed form f the everything of my world

each word a marker for sentences of mundane
i watch myself and my world as i think this
moiving along withiout me

and i sit here watching myself do wwork

which includes writing this

but me inside is mute silent deaf

alone and comes out when everything i am

is focused on

the hunger of everything that is

this be my letters to the rain itself

the leaves

touch as an artform is like a strange martial art

that can be practised anywhre

a few years ago i started the habit of running fingers on bushes

every time it rained

and my sensitivity improved

all things can be strengthened with practise

but i spend half decades between

doing one or another thing

i have done

it is the intent

memory works this way

it functions based upon emotional connection

learning is this way as well

touch is where the pain and agression and joy of life

can match with the creative the fantastic

Author's Notes/Comments: 

placing here out of order temporarily

View neopangaia's Full Portfolio