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Collecting Dust Neath the Fan
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Depression Poems Glancing upon the silvery iredescence,
I see a woman standing there.
Her clothes stripped and left,
Her skin gleaming, bare.
A finger alongside her hips,
A faint trace upon her lips,
And her fiery eyes...
Red lines in a pattern across her chest,
Memories flooding of the piercing flesh.
Her breasts perfect and just right for him,
Her face, a denouncement all within.
Skin smooth 'neath a gentle caress,
Lying neath the ceiling fan--
A hand across her chest.
As she becomes me---
A new waterfall forms,
Not of passion, nor of happiness---
But abandonment,
Like the stolid picture collecting dust,
In the corner with spiders decorating with webs of white.
I look upon the magazine models,
With their silken legs spread open,
And the wanting on their face--with lips parted and eyes closed---
Makes my heart beat more lethargically,
As I look upon this morbidity I lead...
If I posed for such a publication,
Sneers would develop sinisterly on men's faces...
And women would howl in hysterical laughter.
I am nothing but a body, rotting in this young age.
Such a tempting feat to shut off from all life, itself.
Syncopation has lost its meaning...
Staring at the ceiling fan,
Revolving slowly---
Sending the sweet, fresh scent of sex cascading through the room.
And the words spoken from your lips is a dull murmur,
As I hear the crickets and the revolving---
The constant,
Revolving -- revolving... revolving!
Of the dust-collecting ceiling fan.
Nothing is clean in this place,
Not even the sweetness of my virgin kiss--
Or the slow-moving breath, and beating of my heart.
Do you hear my soul weeping for this release I wish to hold?
And you seem distracted from my touch---
Looking aside,
Sweeping your glances to the world outside.
I feel a degrading factor,
Of something I used to hold so dear.
Watching the ceiling fan on this stagnant, humid night...
Revolving slowly -- revolving.
